


A Series of Unfortunate Ghosts

by bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Christmas Carol, Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Eve, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Depression, Draco deals with his actions, Emotional Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Ghosts, Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hogwarts is sort of alive, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Physical Abuse, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, There’s a bit of Lemony Snicket’s in the narration style, and the title, dealing with depression, dealing with the past, depressed, emotional distress, lcdrarry2019, past draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23/pseuds/bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23
Summary: It’s sixth year and Draco Malfoy’s life is about to change thanks to some meddlesome ghosts who show him the path he is on is not the only path for him. Between their ghoulish advice and some deep soul searching, Draco regains some of the hope he lost.





	1. The Beginning

If you, dear reader, are interested in stories with a happy ending that comes from lessons learned, then by George, you've come to the right place. In this tale, not only is there a happy ending, there is angst in the beginning, a bit more turmoil in the middle, and then some happy in the end to send you on your merry way. 

This is because a great many things, good and terrible and all the inbetweens, happened in the life of Draco Lucius Malfoy. He was an intelligent, yet arrogant, youngster who was charming, resourceful with a wand, and had sharp facial features that were not altogether unbecoming—once he grew into them, of course. But he was in an extremely unlucky bind, as most everything in his life led him down a path of deception, anger, and fear. 

I am sorry to tell you this, but Draco Lucius Malfoy was well on his way to becoming a bad man. A very bad man, indeed.  

His greatest misfortune began upon his birth at Malfoy Manor and did not improve for a long while. Do not be alarmed, dear reader, I do not mean to say he was deformed or had any other such physical malady. Only it was his family name that was the misfortune, as they were a line of notoriously dark wizards and Draco, whether he wanted it or not, inherited this name and all that came with it. 

Draco lived with his mother, Narcissa, and his father, Lucius, in the extravagant and all together enormous manor in Wiltshire. It was one of those country manors, one of money, one of tradition, one that had been in the Malfoy family longer than anyone could trace back. The lands on which it stood were enchanted lands, and so Draco grew up with magic all around him and wonder in his heart about a great many things. 

One such thing was Harry Potter. For his father, on occasion, gave him permission—“permission,” you know, here means “consent” or “authorization”—to read the  _ Daily Prophet _ where, dearest reader, Draco first learned about  _ The Boy Who Lived: Harry James Potter _ . Many articles were about the boy who cheated death and sent the darkest wizard of their time to his, unconfirmed, death. It fascinated him beyond anything else he had learned about magic and wizards. For how could a small boy, a boy his age, have defeated a great evil? 

One particular morning, Draco decided, quite without any logical reason, as children often do, that he would become friends with Harry Potter once they were at Hogwarts together and thusly informed his father as much. When telling his father, Draco smiled and thought himself important, as it was important for the Malfoy’s  _ to be important _ , and he wished to impress his father with his importance. 

This particular morning it was lightening and thundering, which scared Draco. In such a large home, with so little inhabitants, so many empty spaces, and a number of strange noises, the manor seemed to be filled with all sorts of ghouls and it was impossible to sit alone in a room without catching the moving eyes of one of his long dead relatives in their portraits or spirit on the move. That is why, on rainy days, Draco made sure to stay at his father’s side. 

If you’re curious, dear reader, Draco Malfoy, the heir to the Malfoy line, liked to sit in the garden with his mother more than he liked sitting at his father's side, being ignored in favor of some letter or other. Her company was more lively than his father's, but he would settle for his father’s company in a pinch because any attention was better than none. 

Like most only children in prominent wizarding families, his parents became the people he grew closest with, his mother in particular. That is not to say he did not have friendships with children his own age. Let’s not think him completely strange, but much of his time was spent at the manor with his parents and an endless line of nannies and tutors and house elves. 

Therefore, it is expected that Draco grew used to grown up company and found it  _ difficult _ to converse with children his age. Many times, in fact, he found himself confused by their idle chatter and turned to mimicking his father’s behavior with his friends since many of his father’s companions seemed to think him important and Draco, so much, wanted to be important like his father and like Harry Potter. 

One of the pastimes Draco enjoyed with his mother included sitting in the gardens and drinking tea. Draco often told his mother what the paper said about Harry Potter that day and she let him go on and on about it, smiling as he did so, fully enraptured in his very serious plan to meet Harry Potter and become his friend. It was nearly all he talked about for sometime. Anyone who knew young Draco well, knew his obsession with Harry Potter grew from a place of admiration and curiosity. It was not always the animosity you will see later in our tale. 

Soon enough, his fascination, his obsession, his curiosity, was discouraged by his father’s adamant direction that he was not, in any way, to admire the boy who interfered with the Dark Lord’s plan. It was thanks to  _ that boy  _ that the Malfoy name did not hold as much clout as it once had. It was  _ that boy’s _ fault Lucius had to donate an exorbitant amount of money to Hogwarts and various other charities to prove they were no longer harboring delusions of rebellion or insurgency against the Ministry. His father always referred to Harry Potter as “that boy,” but that did not truly discourage Draco, not until a particular day. 

During a loud thunder storm, his father was halfway through yet another of his lectures about the Dark Lord as they sat in the parlor, Draco at his father’s knee reading an old issue of the _Daily_ _Prophet_ , half listening, when Draco blurted out a question that had been burning inside of him for a long while. 

“Why do you still care about the Dark Lord if he is supposed to be dead? Harry Potter defeated him. Didn’t he?” Draco asked, and held up an old issue of the paper whose headline read:  _ Dark Lord Dead, Wizards Rejoice _ . There was a picture of some wizards outside of the Ministry throwing their hats up in the air, looking quite pleased. 

“What did you just say to me, Draco?” Lucius asked calmly. His voice did not show his anger. He was good at hiding things, dear reader, especially his emotions. 

“Just that...” Draco started and realized his mistake, if a little too late. He looked down at the oriental rug to avoid his father's gaze. A hotness crept up his chest. 

“You will no longer speak of  _ that boy  _ in my house.” Lucius grabbed Draco by the front of his shirt and pulled him up to his face which still did not give away a hint of his anger. “Your delusions have gone far enough. Your mother is to blame. She says it is harmless for you to read about him, but this is it, Draco. Do you understand me? Am I being perfectly clear, son?”

“Yes, father. Perfectly.” Draco looked away from his father and out of the window. The rain pounded on the panes and a crack of lightning lit up the dim parlor. 

His father let go of his shirt and tossed him back just hard enough that Draco fell. There was still no hint of anything but apathy on his father’s face, yet Draco was scared. True, the lightning did not help the situation, but it was more than that. Draco, for the first time, saw his father as a threat and not as his protector.

Young as he was, Draco did not fully understand his father’s request or from whence it came, all he did understand was his ideas about making friends with Harry Potter must be kept a secret and so secret they became.

 

§§§

 

It is useless for me to tell you what was going through Draco’s head while he attended Hogwarts those first few years. He was scared and confused, especially by his ever-increasing attraction to Harry Potter that morphed from an innocent fantasy of friendship to something deeper. It seemed the more his father told him to stay away, the more Draco wanted to be near Harry Potter in  _ any possible manner _ . If you have ever been a teenager, then you know what this is like—the uncontrollable need to fit in while also being unable to express your feelings. The alienation and loss of control. The burden of family and their expectations. 

Each year at school, Draco vied for Harry’s attention, often in the most foolish manner. First year he attempted to befriend him, but botched the job when he insulted Ron Weasley, a boy with whom Harry had recently become acquainted. 

Second year he spied on Harry, trying to find an in with him—something here that means “putting him in good favor with”—but he ended up making things worse by getting Harry in trouble. And, unwilling to admit his mistake and apologize—because Malfoy’s did not apologize—Draco went on letting Harry hate him. 

After that, he decided if they couldn’t be friends, then they would be enemies because at least that way he still received attention from Harry Potter, albeit negative attention. Be kind, dear reader, for he was twelve and the logic seemed perfectly linear to him at the time. 

Now it is sixth year and Draco, without truly meaning to, became one of the Dark Lord’s acolytes over the summer at his father’s behest—“behest” here is being used in a facetious manner to mean “force.” His father had never been prouder of him than when he accepted his mission to make the Vanishing Cabinet at school work again. Not even the time he made seeker in second year and Draco had  _ actually _ wanted that. 

I’m sure you know, to be in a father’s good graces can often make a child do deplorable things, and Draco was no different. He had yearned for his father’s affection for so long that he grew cold and unfeeling in the face of true companionship, his mind becoming singular in his mission to win his father’s approval, which he lost all those years ago in his childish fantasies about Harry Potter and decided his energy was best used making Harry’s life miserable up until last year when things changed. 

This interest, the good and the bad, in Harry Potter and many more events, is what brings us here, to Hogwarts, today, of all days, Christmas Eve, in the Great Hall during dinner. 

The castle had emptied for the holiday, so Draco was left alone at the Slytherin table, which was not altogether terrible as it gave him time to think. Pansy and Blaise were always nattering on about this band or that quidditch player. Crabbe and Goyle only ever grunted when Draco asked them questions and hardly anyone else was tolerable. Draco had to focus on his mission to make the Vanishing Cabinet work, which he had been lax in doing as of late, and his solitude lent him that luxury. It was for that reason, and the fact that the manor would be full of Death Eaters, that Draco chose to stay behind. Well, that and maybe one other reason—but we will get to that in a moment, dear reader. 

On occasion, he wished things had turned out differently. His solitude often sent him winding down a path to his childhood fantasies of having grand adventures at Hogwarts with Harry Potter, the boy who lived, at his side. Those memories made bile—“bile” here meaning “anger” or “irritability”—rise up in his stomach. He felt weak when he let himself wish for those childish things, especially now in the middle of a war that placed them on opposing sides. 

Therefore given the solitary surroundings and time to think, Draco, winding down that path of ‘what ifs’, had mixed feelings about his mission to fix the Vanishing Cabinet while he ignored the cold slice of ham in front of him that he would not be eating no matter how loudly his stomach growled. 

Draco heard the Great Hall’s door creak open and his gut clenched. There were only so many people left in the castle and Draco did not want to converse with any of them at the moment, especially Harry. Not after last night. 

There were quiet footsteps approaching his table and Draco focused all his energy on keeping his head down, looking as unapproachable as possible without scowling at the oncomer. It was futile in the end because the footsteps stopped directly behind him and Draco felt someone staring down his back, impatiently waiting for him to turn around.

With a sigh, Draco turned his head and saw out of the corner of his eye one very cross looking Harry Potter. 

“You left last night before we could finish talking,” Harry said forgoing any idle pleasantries. He wore a white jumper and ripped blue jeans. There was a bruise on his cheek from where Draco had punched him last night. It was purple and swollen. 

“I had nothing left to say,” said Draco, turning away from him. He tried to ignore him by piling more mashed potatoes onto his plate, even though he had no plans to eat those either, as his stomach made him feel like he was free falling on his broom without any way to stop before hitting the ground. 

“Well, I do,” said Harry. 

With a flick of his wrist, Draco ushered Harry on, for he knew Harry would say whatever was on his mind even if Draco didn’t want to hear it. “Say it and then leave me alone. I grow tired of this topic.” He picked up his fork and pushed the mashed potatoes around letting the fork scrape against the plate, hoping it would annoy Harry into leaving. 

“I know you’re afraid, even though you won’t admit it,” Harry said. He moved to sit on the bench next to Draco and placed a hand over Draco’s to make him stop pushing the fork around. “You feel what I feel, Draco. I know you do.”

“Remove your hand, Potter, or I will remove it for you,” said Draco through gritted teeth. The familiarity in the touch, however innocent, made Draco’s stomach sink. Harry felt as comfortable touching Draco as he did any of his friends. He did so not even caring who saw them. It was too much.

“I promise, I’ll keep you protected,” said Harry, ignoring Draco’s threat. He squeezed Draco’s hand and released it. “I promise you, Draco, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Draco could not help but laugh at Harry’s naivety. It was clear that Harry truly believed his words, but that did not make them  _ true _ . If Draco did what Harry was asking of him, no amount of belief could protect Draco from the Dark Lord, or his own father. 

It was the sort of thing Draco had often let himself daydream about, of course, but it was not the stuff of reality, dearest reader. Betraying his family, the Dark Lord, in favor of Harry Potter. It was unthinkable, unrealistic, and bloody well the most absurd thing Draco had ever considered. 

“You make it all sound so simple, Potter,” said Draco, slamming his hands on the table. “Perfect Potter thinks all I have to do is, what? Betray everything I know and voila, the war is won? How achingly naive of you.” He clutched the cutlery so he was not tempted to give Harry a matching bruise on his other cheek. 

“People will die if you don’t,” reasoned Harry. “You could die.”

“Maybe I deserve it,” retorted Draco, letting a somberness sweep across his sharp features, softening him. Making him look younger for a moment. 

The door to the Great Hall opened again and Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger entered. Draco turned to see them just as they entered. They were caught up in some conversation but when they saw Harry sitting with him, both stopped dead in their tracks and eyed Harry curiously. Hermione wore, what seemed to be a homemade Christmas sweater with a present box pattern on it. Ron wore a dark green jumper with a golden letter R stitched into it. 

“Your mates will be wanting your attention then, best not keep them waiting,” said Draco bitterly. All the secret keeping was normal for Draco, but Harry had begged Draco to let him tell Ron and Hermione what was going on between them, at least so they would stop giving Draco dirty looks, but Draco refused. This was the kind of secret that could get him killed, or worse. No one else needed to know. 

Harry moved to say something more, but Draco cut him off. “Our conversation is over anyway. As I said last night, you misread whatever it— whatever  _ this _ is between us. You’re just a good fuck, that’s all. I am still me, Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune, and you are still you, Harry Potter, Golden Boy extraordinaire. We cannot be more than that and you know it.” 

“Why won’t you admit you want this as much as I do?” asked Harry. There was exhaustion in his expression, for they had this conversation before without any progress. He stood up slowly, keeping his eyes on Draco, but when Draco did not respond, he shook his head and walked to the Gryffindor table and sat with his back to Draco. 

Draco knew Harry thought everything could be solved in a snap as long as Draco told him what the Dark Lord’s plans were, as long as Draco trusted him and, dear reader, he desperately wanted to trust Harry. In fact, last year he had realized how deep the desire ran in him to trust Harry. 

That knowledge only scared him. His mind would not quiet itself with all the “not good enoughs” that his father planted there long ago—telling Draco he was not important enough even in the small things like being paid attention to, so Draco thought he was not good enough to have the love and protection of someone like Harry Potter and ignored his deepest desires in favor of what he thought he deserved. 

Thus, they had been locked in a holding pattern all year. Harry begging Draco to switch sides and Draco feeling trapped by obligations, by threats, by his own vulnerabilities. But it had to be this way. He bore the Dark Mark now. That could not be washed away.  

Plus, how could it be otherwise with their history, with their families' histories, with the wizarding world’s history? Everyone watched them. They were at odds, partners in a dance that they only  _ thought _ they had control over. Draco found out how out of control he was after sharing a kiss with Harry just before school let out for summer, setting this all in motion, bringing us here on Christmas Eve. 

Everything Draco thought he knew went up in smoke once his lips touched Harry’s. He could no longer deny his feelings, at least not to himself in the quiet hours of the night when he lie awake replaying that kiss over and over all summer long. Though he tried. He could no longer pretend that he was onboard with a war that would see Harry Potter dead. In addition, Draco also could not pretend with his family that he was the perfect heir, that he was going to tow the line and play the good son—the good Death Eater. He grew rebellious that summer, even if it was in small doses. It angered his father. 

The mention of this revelation brings me back to my original point: Draco Malfoy’s life was about to change in a very unexpected way. 

There is no doubt that Draco was mixed up about his role in the oncoming war. Dear readers, he questioned his father’s motives, his own, even the Dark Lord’s. In fact, vocalizing his concern to his mother over the summer, Draco hoped to find comfort in a woman who had always indulged him, but instead found himself at the mercy of the Dark Lord after she betrayed his trust and told his father of his uncertainty in the Dark Lord’s plans. 

That small rebellion landed Draco with the Dark Mark and a mission that would see him dead if he did not accomplish his task. If he did not successfully fix the Vanishing Cabinet, well, dear reader, Draco would have to face his greatest fear; Lord Voldemort’s wrath, which, as he witnessed all summer, knew no limits and did not lack in a certain grotesque creativity. And as you know, dear reader, fear can cripple even the strongest people. 

This fear is what caused Draco so much turmoil at present. He was sure that if he did not complete his task, the Dark Lord would follow through on his threat to kill him, or worse. It was also this fear that led him back to Harry Potter at the start of the year. Harry was the small seed of hope he protected that told him life didn’t have to be this way. It is what led him into the arms of the boy his father ordered him to keep away from, the boy the Dark Lord planned to kill. 

Yes, dear readers, I mean to say that Draco and Harry, despite appearances, were engaging in a bit of a romance—“romance,” of course does not mean “relationship” here, in fact, more closely it means “relations,” which of course means “sexual encounters.” They occasionally, despite their confused animosity for one another, engaged in sexual acts. It was of the utmost importance that this remain a secret. At first, it was just sweating and thrusting in empty classrooms and broom closets, a way to release tension; however, Harry tainted it, in Draco’s mind, when he asked Draco one simple question: “Are you alright?”

The concern implicit in that question told Draco there was something more to their little dalliances. More than the physical, carnal need to sweat against someone else’s body to feel alive, to feel in control. Harry actually seemed to care for him and it was not long after that question that Harry began to, at every convenience or even inconvenience, beg Draco to reconsider which side he was on and promise him protection. 

This will explain then, Harry’s comment earlier. For he and Draco were still decidedly and fiercely at odds, even after months of Harry begging him to change. It did not matter that Draco felt his heart flutter at the thought of Harry’s lips on his. All that mattered was the Vanishing Cabinet and the Dark Lord’s threat. 

That’s all that was supposed to matter, at the very least, since his relationship with Harry was, as he often told himself, a fleeting fantasy. Every time they kissed, Draco told himself it would be the last time and that Harry would come to his senses at any moment and realize Draco is not worth the concern or the affection.

It was cold, bleak, and snowing out, but Draco decided air would do him good, even if that air would bite. Anything was preferable to staring at Harry’s back, feeling both the pull to him and the disgust at his desire to be held by him. The Great Hall, now also occupied by Harry’s mates, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, seemed to be worse than facing the harsh weather, and so he made his way out of the Great Hall. 

As Draco walked past them, he could hear them chattering on about presents and the like, as if the greatest war of their lives was not imminent. He envied their ability to forget. He did not have that luxury. It filled his every waking thought, and even his sleeping ones. Not that he would have won any congeniality awards before, dear reader, as he was not very nice, but this year Draco grew more and more morose, and more and more unpleasant. 

The war weighed on him so much that he even grew lazy in caring for himself. Forgetting to comb his hair or wash his robes. His grades slipped slightly, too. It was very unlike Draco, but hardly anyone noticed because people like Draco—people who burn bridges instead of building them—often go unnoticed as there is no one who cares enough to notice. That was, until Harry Potter began to notice in small increments and then in larger, until Harry’s concern for Draco was seeping out of his pores. 

Casting a  _ Tempus _ charm, Draco saw that it was only half past four on Christmas Eve as he walked into the courtyard and away from Harry, for what he decided was the last time, for he decided he would really cut if off this time. Prolonging it was only making it harder to disconnect from Harry. He had to end it.

The sunlight on the snow looked like fire on ice. The snow fell quickly covering his hair in big crystalline chunks. A young, childish impulse drove him to tilt his head back and stick his tongue out and catch a snowflake. It dissolved quickly and he shut his mouth, embarrassed though no one was around to judge him.

There was a bird on a branch. It flapped its wings and Draco wondered why the bird was here when it was so cold and it had the ability to fly away. He envied the bird it’s ability to escape. He watched as it picked the bare branch. The bird head cocked to the side as he noticed Draco. There was a moment where they watched one another and then the bird took off. 

“Good for you,” Draco said, and watched the bird fly up and up. His breath fogged in front of him. 

“Happy Christmas Eve, Draco,” a rumbly old voice came from behind him. It was Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He wore a purple velvet robe and half-moon spectacles. “It is quite cold this evening, but I am fond of the snow myself, so I brave it often.” 

“Sure,” said Draco. “Happy Christmas Eve.” 

He was smiling at Draco, Professor Dumbledore was, in that way he did which seemed to be kind and insidious all at once. His eyes sparkled, his breath fogged as he spoke again, “Does the merry mood not strike you this year?”

“No, I’m quite merry Professor. I just love spending my holiday alone,” said Draco. “It fills me with great joy to be abandoned to the castle.”

“Why, Draco, you let your sour mood blind you,” Dumbledore returned. “There are many wonderful things that can happen at the castle over Christmas. If one only allows them to happen.” The old man then winked as if to punctuate his speech.

Draco, unsure how to answer blurted out, “Ha!” And followed with, “You’re off your top.”

“Possible,” said Dumbledore with a smile. “Probable.” He turned on his heel without another word and made his way back to the castle. His steps crunching in the snow as he went. 

Meanwhile the snow fell harder and the coldness thickened around Draco like a fog. He wrapped his cloak closer around his middle. The ancient tower at the top of the castle, the Astronomy Tower, whose grand arches made stargazing easy were lit up indicating that someone was in the tower. Draco looked up with guilt. He was supposed to meet Harry there tonight, but he couldn’t face him. He wanted one more night to indulge in his fantasy before he ended things with Harry. If he went to meet him now, then it would be over. At least this way, he could pretend for one more night that there was still a possibility.

The cold, now unbearable, burrowed to his core. Draco watched the flicker of light from the tower a moment longer and decided guilt was not worth frostbite.

 


	2. The First Unfortunate Ghost

The Slytherin common room was in the dungeons, deep below Hogwarts. Draco thought it quite fit his mood; dark, dreary, and isolated from the rest of the inhabitants of the castle. The room had been cleaned since Draco left that morning and a fire burned in the hearth. It was the only light in the room. Through the long windows, Draco could see the green waters of the Black Lake against the panes and the kelp swaying to and fro. Standing in the corner of the room, with his hands crossed over his chest, was a bronze statue of Salazar Slytherin, frowning at him. 

“I’ll have none of that from you,” Draco called to the statue. “I’ve had enough judgement for one day, thank you very much.” 

The statue did not respond and Draco huffed at it before slumping down on the brown leather sofa. The leather squeaked under his weight. The sound was made louder by the empty, dreariness of the room. See, it was the kind of sofa that belonged in an office—uncomfortable and firm—not the kind one sits on after a long day to unwind. But it was all Draco had, so he made due by slouching down far enough to rest his head. 

Now, it is a fact, dear reader, that there was nothing at all comforting—here “comforting” means “serving to alleviate grief or distress”—about the Slytherin common room, except the burning hearth. It is also a fact, that Draco had, in all his years at Hogwarts, never felt comforted  anywhere with the exception of Harry’s arms though he would never admit to that freely.

Let it also be known that Draco had been plagued by his thoughts on Harry Potter and his duty to the Dark Lord and his family, since he was old enough to understand those two things were diametrically opposed. And then tell me, dear reader, that it surprises you to find Draco sitting in the Slytherin common room staring at the statue of one of the founders of Hogwarts and wishing he was anyone else in the entire world so that he would not have to think one moment longer on the thoughts which plagued his waking and sleeping moments. 

Struggling, as he was, Draco looked at the statue of his frowning founding father and swore he glanced in it Harry Potter’s face where Slytherin’s should have been. Hoping it to be a trick of the light, Draco blinked his eyes and cast a  _ Lumos _ , but still when he looked at the statue, he saw the square jaw, slender nose, and unmistakable lightning shaped scar. It watched Draco with a curious look, as if trying to decide on something. 

As Draco stared harder, he saw the wisps of Harry’s hair blowing as if a breeze ran through the empty dungeon. Then as quickly as Harry’s face appeared, Salazar Slytherin’s returned and Draco was left, on the edge of his seat staring down a statue. 

To say he was unaffected by the occurrence would be a lie, for while strange things happened in the castle all the time, that did not mean one grew apathetic towards the curiosity of such occurrences. It was more apt to say, Draco could not spare another thought on the curious nature of the statue, for the problem of the Vanishing Cabinet had his full attention once again, and so he blamed his odd vision on lack of sleep and guilt at standing Harry up. 

“Merlin, I need some sleep,” he said, forcefully, slamming his hands down on the dark wood table in front of the couch. The sound reverberated around him, echoing as if in a cavern. Every part of the dungeons seeming more empty as the sound filled it. Draco, unlike many people, was not so afraid of being alone, but once the echo died off, he paused a moment, feeling a particular dread spread through him. 

The loneliness weighed on his mind, so before settling in his room, he walked around the Slytherin dorm to make sure nothing odd lurked in the shadows. 

Casting another  _ Lumos _ , Draco winded down the stairs to the rooms and peered inside. All was as it was left before the holiday break. No one hid in a corner, or behind a door. There was no sign of anyone in the bathrooms, the closets, nor under the beds. In his own room, things were as they should be—his trunk at the end of his bed, his desk with parchment spread out over it, the curtains around his bed, drawn. 

Satisfied, Draco undressed and slipped into his nightclothes; a silk pair of pajamas he got last Christmas. For good measure, he locked his door with a quick flick of his wand. 

It was not unlike Draco to be paranoid, yet he never felt the need to lock himself in his own room. However, there was something about his earlier conversation with Dumbledore that left him on edge. That and his odd vision of Harry in the statue only moments ago.

It was very cold in his room; not that the dungeons were ever warm enough, not even in the warmer months, but Draco felt particularly cold this night. He was forced to wrap himself tightly in his blankets, and snuggle into himself, before he could feel the smallest kindling of warmth. The blanket was a thick one that he brought from the Manor, for it was often cold there, too. Lined with sheep’s wool, it trapped the warmth in on Draco. 

After several minutes of tossing and turning, turning and tossing, Draco felt sleep creeping over him. His mind quieted just enough that Harry’s face floated in his mind's eye. He could see the stupid grin Harry wore everytime Draco sank to his knees in front of him. It was a pleasant thought compared to the rest, so instead of shooing it away like he usually would, embarrassed and ashamed at how sentimental he felt toward Harry, he let the image of Harry grinning at him linger longer. 

The picture in his head—Harry smiling at him—warmed Draco’s groin and he pushed the heel of his hand down on his growing erection, trying to ignore the desire he felt. It was with greatest effort, dear reader, that he did not jump out of bed and hunt Harry down and begin ripping his clothes off to have his way with him. That would be akin to admitting weakness and Draco would not let Harry think him weak. Instead, he fluttered his eyes open and slipped his hand under the waistband of his pajamas. 

Desire pooled in his stomach as he remembered their last pleasant encounter—three nights ago in a broom closet. Harry had insulted him in Potions. Draco shoved him after class once they were in an empty hallway out of sight from Harry’s gaggle of admirers. They wrestled to the ground, hitting each other, drawing blood, fighting over nothing and everything at once. Then, much to Draco’s surprise, Harry bit his neck, hard. In their tangled state, Harry felt how affected Draco had been and bit him again, and harder this time. Scrambling to the nearest broom closet, Harry ripped Draco’s robes off and they ravished each other, Harry biting his neck hard enough to leave marks. 

Even in their lust, there lingered some animosity, some aggression carried over from the years where they simply hurt one another. It came out in their push and pull as they explored one another; their kisses bordering the thinning line between passion and disgust. It was a duel almost as much as it was kissing. They worked to invade the other’s space; shoving tongues in mouths, exploring. Pulling heads and yanking hair to adjust for deeper penetration. 

When Harry sunk his teeth into Draco’s neck that day, the pain awakened him. It had been the first time Harry bit him during their rendezvous. His pulse slammed against his throat, pounding so hard he could taste it. It hurt, but he liked that it hurt; he wanted it to hurt. To him, the pain was a reminder that even when they were tangled up in one another’s limbs, tasting one another, they were enemies. The fighting nature of their affair reminded Draco that he was not, and never would be, good enough for Harry or Harry’s way of life. Or at least, that is what he told himself in the quiet hours at night when he felt himself indulging in a fantasy long abandoned. 

As he lay there, his mind lingered on the feeling of Harry’s cock pressing against his bare hip as they slid to the broom closet floor that day. Their bodies touching the entire way down, neither of them willing to break the connection. Their skin slick with sweat and their chests heaving in unison. The feel of Harry’s breath hot on his neck, lips parted, sucking and biting as they grinded into one another had been enough to release the tension in his cock, spilling himself all along Harry’s stomach. 

Even the memory brought Draco there—to the edge of pleasure and pain. He felt his erection pulsing under his grip. His body, warm under the blanket, was slick with sweat.  His body shuddered as he neared his climax. He remembered Harry biting him one last time before he came; biting him so hard, warm blood trickled down his neck. Draco recalled how the blood dripped down his neck like rain on a window and he liked the pain. Harry, Draco remembered with an uneasy feeling in his gut, had been so concerned after seeing the blood. He rushed to stop the bleeding all while apologizing over and over for being too rough. Then he asked if Draco was alright.

That question ruined everything. Up until that day, when they hurt one another, they said nothing. Draco had assumed there was an unspoken rule about what all of this was—just sex, nothing more. They were merely rutting against each other to release the tension between them and if they got a bit bruised in the process, so what? It was just another form of fighting with Harry, at least that is what he convinced himself to believe. Then in that one moment—Harry apologizing for hurting him, asking him if he was alright. Touching him tenderly as he cleaned the wound. It had made Draco feel angry like the illusion he created for himself, so he could stay safe, was shattered. Broken like glass that even when put back together, the cracks are still visible. 

Draco came, but the orgasm left him sad. The fantasy was tainted with the memory of Harry’s concern. With a flick of his wand the evidence of his fantasy was gone and Draco was left alone once again in a dark, quiet room all alone thinking about all the reasons why he and Harry could never be anything more than what they were now. 

After a moment, Draco’s attention was pulled to the corner of his room. There was the smallest wisp of light as if a  _ Lumos _ was cast. Except it couldn’t be a  _ Lumos _ because Draco was painfully and achingly alone. 

The door was still locked shut and he thoroughly checked the Slytherin dorms, so there was absolutely no way any person could be in the corner of his room. As he threw off his blanket, his gaze with the small wisp of light broke and when he looked again at the spot where it stood, there was nothing. It was with great astonishment, and with sinking panic, that Draco looked around the room in search of the light. He almost wished he didn’t find the light again, for that would mean there was something in the room with him; however he also wished to find the light and readily discover its benign nature so he may get the rest he so craved. 

With his wand tight in his hand, Draco slipped the rest of the way out of bed and walked over to the original spot where the light appeared. His heart pounded against his ribs and he felt staggeringly silly. The castle was all but empty. There was no reason to think he was being attacked, and yet he felt sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. Draco then remembered, belatedly and happily, the ghosts of Hogwarts and felt his panic subside ever so slightly. 

Before he could fully feel the true solace of rationality, his bedroom door swung open with a crack, and then he felt winds whirl around him. His hair flew in his face and he quickly worked to brush it clear of his eyes. 

“Who goes there? I demand you show yourself,” said Draco, shouting over the wind which now ripped through his room, scattering parchment and bed sheets. “Tell me who is there.”

Faking at bravery—here “bravery” means “courageous behavior or character”—Draco straightened his back and held his wand out in front of him, ready for a duel if need be. His face dropped when the thing materialized before his very eyes. Upon her appearing, the wind died down and the parchment began floating to the ground. 

“Myrtle,” shouted Draco. Shock plain on his face. “Why are you here?”

Moaning Myrtle, dear readers, was a fixture of the girls lavatory where the Chamber of Secrets entrance was located and she and Draco had a sort of friendship that blossomed out of their shared misery. Myrtle— in her pigtails, usual morose expression upon her face, wearing her Hogwarts uniform—seemed her usual self this night. Yet, never having seen her outside of the lavatory, Draco felt curiosity at what drove her to venture to the dungeons at such an hour. 

Draco, like many Hogwarts students, had believed Myrtle was stuck in the lavatory and unable to roam the castle like the other ghosts since no one had seen her leave her post in all the years she had been dead. He would never have believed her capable of leaving the safety of her stall if he had not been looking right at her hovering in his doorway. 

Yet, there was an oddness, a strangeness, a curiousness, about the expression upon her face that he had not noticed straight off. Though he often spent time with Myrtle, Draco never truly thought of her as a ghost, but rather as a very see-through person who refused to leave the lavatory. Now, before him, she looked ghostly and severe for the first time since he knew her. Myrtle’s eyes bore the weight of her death and he felt the chilling influence of them as she watched him. 

“Myrtle, what are you doing here?” asked Draco, sweat running down his spine. The electricity in the air set his hair on end. His wand was still raised between them. “What do you want?”

“Oh, not much.” Myrtle’s voice came out like a whisper, punctuated by her girlish giggle. She turned away bashfully. 

“Tell me why you’ve burst into my room like a bleeding tornado. Are you out of your mind? It’s late and I’m trying to sleep.”

Still avoiding eye contact, Myrtle growled out, in a voice very unlike her own, “You’re asking the wrong questions, Draco.”

“Wh—what question should I ask then?” Draco stepped back, watching her expression with curiosity. The tone of her voice was more ghoul than ghost. It made Draco raise his wand slightly higher. A thought occurred to him after a moment—maybe that wasn’t actually Myrtle. 

Her sad, sad voice restored, Myrtle asked, “In life, I was bullied, you know?”

“I know,” said Draco, still searching for some hint that this Myrtle was indeed his Myrtle and not some imposter sent by the Dark Lord to kill him for not achieving his goal with the Vanishing Cabinet.

“I spent my time crying in that stall, so I died there.” Myrtle tisked at herself and flew closer to Draco. She watched him carefully with her head cocked to one side. She played with her pig tail, twisting her hair between her index and thumb. “I don’t like seeing you like this, Draco. He says this will do the trick, put you on track, so here we are, to help.”

“Can you—can you just tell me what’s going on? Who thinks this will help? Who are you working with, Myrtle?” Draco swallowed and his mouth went dry. He must know. He must know that Draco betrays everything by having an affair with Harry. The Dark Lord must have gotten to her. If he had, then Draco was sure to die this night. 

Myrtle flew upward in a spiral, the parchment fluttering up with her. When she reached the height of the room’s ceiling, she looked down at Draco with a serious look on her face. “I’ve told you already, silly.”

“No, Myrtle you haven’t.” 

Draco watched her for a response. She only cocked her head to the side, with her eyes wide open, looking practically terrifying as she floated down so they were eye to eye. 

“Haven’t I?” asked Myrtle as she swirled around Draco causing a small breeze to pick up in the room. The parchment on the floor fluttered eagerly. Draco shook his head. “Oh, oh my, I am terrible.”

Myrtle let out a wail and covered her face. Her cries filled the room and Draco wished he could comfort her, stop her from crying. Even if part of it was selfishly that he needed her to calm down so he could figure out who was behind this. 

Between sobs, Myrtle spoke. “I’m here because you need me, Draco. Don’t you see that?” She sniffled as she asked her question. 

“I don’t know,” said Draco. “I’m not really sure what’s going on.”

He watched her as she considered his answer. She wore a sad smile that made her seem more herself. Draco felt his grip on his wand relax slightly. Maybe it was seeing Harry’s face on the statue or Dumbledore's cryptic words, but his entire body felt tense at Myrtle’s intrusion. 

“Why do you always doubt your feelings, Draco?” Myrtle asked suddenly, a frown on her face. “Don’t you trust anything, trust anyone?”

The question felt so out of place that Draco dropped his wand hand to his side and staggered back to lean on his bedpost. The first thing that sprang to mind at the question was Voldemort’s face, his cruel red eyes, and the whisper of death on his breath as he spoke to Draco—warning him that only death could free him from their bond. The second thing was Harry—just Harry and that stupid lopsided grin he wore after sex. 

“Because,” said Draco, firmly, and without thinking he continued, “Well, because…they make me weak. A moment of indulgence could cost me my life, my mother and father’s lives. You may be able to follow your whims in death, Myrtle, but it is not so easily done in life. There’s more at stake than my feelings.” As an afterthought, Draco added, “Plus people lie. You know that.” 

Draco was not much for declarations of feeling. He liked much better, keeping them to himself for that way no one could mock him or tell him he was behaving childishly. He learned that lesson with his father. Emotion was weakness. 

The truth is that he tried, desperately, to be like his father— as discerning and as cold, in order to distract himself from his own feelings, and to keep his impulses under control; for if he let those feelings, which were so unbecoming to his father, run wild, he was sure to disappoint and betray his family in favor of Harry Potter and the chance, however small, that there was something more to their dalliances, something like the beginnings of love. 

Myrtle watched him as she flitted about the room, letting her body twist but keeping her gaze on him the whole time. It reminded him that threats can come from anywhere and anyone, so he raised his wand again, not willing to get done in because he was too busy worrying about how unlike herself Myrtle was behaving.

“Are you going to tell me what this is really all about?” asked Draco; his attention diverted to his doorway as he spoke, wondering if he could make it out of the room before she took notice. 

“I already did,” replied Myrtle.

“All you did was ask me why I doubt my feelings,” countered Draco. 

“What is your point?”

“Well...” Draco started and then paused; for his point was lost when he felt a chill run up his spine like the tickle of a feather on his skin. Myrtle was behind him suddenly and, though Draco knew this to be impossible as she was a ghost, he  _ felt _ a hand on his neck. With a tremble, Draco fell to his knees and hugged his middle. His stomach sank and he felt as if there was a Dementor nearby. The cold empty feeling of Dementors that hollow out a person to their core.

“Myrtle, you’re scaring me,” he said, trying to regain his composure and failing. 

“ _ Good _ ,” said she as a wail ripped from her that shook the postings of the beds and vibrated the floor beneath him. Draco held himself tighter around the middle, dropping his wand to the ground in a fit of fear; for our dear Draco, in a moment of pure shock, thought he would die that night by the hands of Moaning Myrtle. And, he would not be ashamed to tell you that a small part of him felt released by the idea; released from his guilt, from pressure, from fear. 

In a voice that was not hers, Myrtle spoke, “You wear the chains forged for you by your past, by your family’s past. Would you see yourself weighed down by them for eternity as I am?” The voice was deep and held to it an edge of warning. The sound ran across Draco’s skin, palpable, and he shivered while wondering if a ghost could be possessed. If Myrtle was under someone's influence. Again, he worried the Dark Lord was behind this. 

Draco trembled once more, but felt brave enough to turn his gaze upon Myrtle who still floated behind him. “Myrtle please leave me alone. I’ve done nothing to hurt you. We’re friends. Can't you please leave me alone?”

“I can’t do that, Draco,” replied the ghost in her own girlish voice. “I have instructions to follow. Forgive me.” 

It was habit with Draco to scoff when he was annoyed. He often scoffed at Harry in classes and the halls. Nearly everything about Harry annoyed Draco. And so, annoyed as he was, he scoffed now at Myrtle in spite of his fear. 

“You may think it funny now, Draco, but I am here to warn you, that you have a chance yet to escape my fate. A chance to live and hope, instead of die and linger in a lavatory for the rest of your wandering days,” said Myrtle, finishing with a giggle.  

“Myrtle, you’re my friend, aren’t you?”

“I am and that is why I’m helping him do this. It’s for your own good,” Myrtle said, almost looking remorseful. “You will be visited tonight by three spirits.”

Draco’s face fell. Three more ghosts? If they were anything like Myrtle, he was in for a long and confusing night. He wanted sleep, not to hear the circular ramblings of those long dead. “I don’t think I’m up for more visitors, Myrtle. Maybe another time?” 

“Without their guidance, Draco, I fear the worst for you and so does he. The path down which you are heading is one from which you cannot return. I hope this will help you diverge from it before it is too late. Expect the first when the clock strikes one. The second at two and the third at three.” 

“Do I really have to?”

“Yes.” Myrtle floated backward toward the open door. “Listen to them, Draco,” she whispered and with a fierce wind, she was gone. 


	3. The Second Unfortunate Ghost

“Bollocks this,” Draco said to himself, feeling quite silly for letting Myrtle’s words rattle him, and resolving to ignore them, got back into bed. 

Again, dear reader, I do hope you understand as ghosts were a regular occurrence at Hogwarts, Draco found the appearance of Myrtle, while a tad odd, not frightening enough to keep him from the sleep he so desperately craved. And so he closed his eyes, thinking of Myrtle’s words of warning, even though he thought them to be tosh.

When Draco settled back in his blanket and drew the curtains on three sides of his bed shut, the last, the one facing the door, he left open a crack and he cast a  _ Tempus _ charm. It was half past midnight. If Myrtle was to be taken seriously, the next ghost should arrive within thirty minutes time. Considering this and the potential interruption it posed, Draco decided to stay awake until the clock struck one, for if the ghost did not show then he would simply assume none would come and he could finally get to sleep. If he were to have a visitor, then staying awake until they arrived would ensure Draco not get caught unaware again.

Time ticked by slowly. Casting a  _ Tempus _ every two minutes, Draco was growing impatient and agitated and just about every word synonymous with annoyed. There was a passing thought about how prompt ghosts would be since they were, after all, dead, and how much could time truly mean to them—then Draco got well and truly annoyed at his current situation. 

“One minute,” said Draco to himself for good measure. He watched the door through the small opening in his drawn curtains for any sign that another ghost would be his visitor this night. Counting down in his head, Draco got to zero and instantly a bright light flashed through the room, blinding him. 

The curtains of his bed were all drawn open and he tried to blink his eyes to adjust to the light, but it was too much. Scrambling for his wand, which had fallen at his side in his shock, Draco tried to close one of the curtains for some relief from the light. Before he could manage either task, the light receded like a tide and Draco, upon opening his eyes, found himself staring at the ghostly visage in his doorway. 

It was a strange sight—for Draco recognized this ghost as well; it was the ghost of the deceased Regulus Black, his distant relative. He appeared as a young man, Hogwarts age, in his Slytherin sweater and tie. His hair was long and black and tucked behind his ears; the face had not a blemish upon it, in fact, there was the faintest blush in the cheeks that made Draco wonder if he was truly looking at a ghost or not. Quite in contrast, his hands were blackened and cracking, as if he were turning to stone right there on the spot. He stood, casually, against the doorframe with a small smile on his lips. Around his neck swung a pendant of great design. But the oddest thing that struck Draco was this ghost, unlike Myrtle, was not translucent. He seemed as solid as Draco. As real, too. 

“Are you the ghost I’m supposed to be expecting?” asked Draco with a small amount of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth at his situation. “You don’t much look like any ghost I’ve ever seen.”

“What do you think?” The voice was soft and gentle. Low, whispering, yet Draco heard him as if they were mouth to ear. 

“I  _ think _ , I’d like some sleep,” Draco answered, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “You’re Regulus Black, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture in the family histories. You’re Sirius’ brother.”

“I am.” The ghost bowed, bending at his middle. The pendant swung like a pendulum as he did so. “And you are Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune and recent Death Eater, serving the Dark Lord and his ghastly plans. Making the same old family mistakes, I see? How dull, Draco. I’d expected more from you.”

“This is ridiculous,” huffed Draco. “You don’t know me or my circumstance.”

“I know more than you think, Draco.” Extending a blackened hand, Regulus asked, “Shall we, then?”

Draco could not help himself, for it felt like talking to any odd person, not a ghost meant to frighten him, so he rolled his eyes. “Will you not tell me what your purpose is here?”

Regulus smiled. “It’s time for a trip, Draco.” 

“To where?”

“Why, to where it all began.”

With a mocking laugh, Draco said, “To the creation of the universe then?”

Regulus laughed a hearty, human laugh in return, though he did not seemed amused. “No, to where  _ your _ journey began.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” Draco said flippantly. He smirked and back up towards his bed. 

Regulus looked puzzled. His eyes narrowed and he looked up at the ceiling as if the thing that perplexed him sat on the ceiling just out of sight. He spoke after a moment. “You hide from it, your past, and it will blind you in your present. On that, you can take my word, Draco.”

“Why do you do this?” Draco asked. He could not understand why he, of all people, would be subjected to this. If it was some plot of the Dark Lord's to kill him. Why not get on with it? 

“We do this for you, Draco, for your welfare.” Regulus smiled softly. 

Draco opened his mouth to respond and found it futile. He thought that pointing out that a good night's rest would benefit his welfare just as much as whatever Regulus had planned would only serve to prolong their encounter, so he nodded instead. 

“Good, follow me then,” demanded Regulus. 

Resigning himself to yet another sleepless night, Draco got up from his bed, put on his slippers, and  tucked his wand away in the waistband of pajamas then followed Regulus out into the common room where the fire had all but burned out in the hearth. 

There was a chill about the room that had nought to do with the lack of fire. Draco hugged himself around the middle. “The common room? Is this where our grand adventure will take us? I have been here before, you know?”

“Do shut up and take my hand, won’t you?” said Regulus, extending his blackened hand once more. Taking it, Draco felt a lightness in his body as if the gravity had been turned down a little.

As Draco considered the foolishness of this scene, he in his pajamas holding the hand of a long deceased relative, they began to vibrate and with a snap, they were off. The common room vanished and Draco found they were standing in his father’s parlour at the manor, there was snow and frost on the window pane. 

“You brought me home?” snorted Draco. This ghost business was less impressive than Myrtle made it out to be. If all they were to do was visit places he’d already been, he considered his fears were well put to rest. “There’s nothing here.”

Regulus gazed upon him with curiosity. His hand still holding tight to Draco’s. “Look closer.”

Draco was conscious of every detail then. The fire burning in the hearth, the oriental rugs underfoot with their tassels splayed out. The long, green velvet curtains tucked into place letting the light stream into the room, illuminating his father’s reading chair with its highback and gold filigree edging. Then the overwhelming smell of brandy assaulted his senses and he turned to see a wet spot near his father’s favorite chair. His throat went dry at the realization of just  _ when _ they were in his past. 

“You are nervous,” said Regulus, though he seemed unaffected by it. 

Draco muttered, with all the grace of Weasley answering a question in potions, “I’m fine. Please take me back to Hogwarts.” He stumbled over the words and felt dread settle in his stomach. This was a day Draco never wanted to remember, let alone relive with an audience even if that audience was a dead man.

“Don’t you remember what happened this day,” said Regulus, “You were playing with your new toys from Christmas and knocked over your father’s entire bottle of brandy after playing a game of seeker.”

“Remember it,” cried Draco with fervor, tired of being played with, “I still have the scar.” His heart hammered in his chest and, in a movement of brashness, he thrust out his forearm then and yanked up his shirt sleeve to reveal the long, pink scar there. Even healed, it stood out against the paleness of his skin. 

“Curious lesson you learned that day,” observed Regulus. He watched Draco. His dark eyes searching for something still. “Shall we see the rest, Draco?”

“No,” begged Draco.

Regulus did not hear him though, or he simply did not care, for he was opening the parlour doors and walking to the grand hall of the manor, Draco taking note of the vase in the corner that, in present, no longer stood there since his father shattered it shoving Draco into it after Draco lost his first quidditch match. The rest of the hall was decorated with garlands of blue and silver and bewitched candles floating near the ceiling. There was a faint scent of cinnamon in the air. 

As if on cue, his father rounded the corner, face expressionless, hair slicked back, head held up high, dragging Draco by the arm toward the parlour doors which they had just exited. 

It was a shock to see his younger self, even though he expected he would be looking on the memory as if from a Pensieve. He remembered this Christmas well enough and did not care for the reminder. Just seeing this bit was enough to make his heart pound.

His throat was dry and he swallowed hard, trying to force himself to stay calm. Quietly, he asked, “I expect they cannot see or hear us?”

Regulus nodded without a word and pointed for them to follow the memories of himself and his father. Draco spied the beginning of a tear welling up in the apparition’s eye that left him with a curious and queer—here “queer” means “odd or unexpected”—aching in his stomach like he had drank spoiled milk. Other than the tear, Regulus looked as unaffected as he had since arriving in Draco’s dorm. Only the tear betrayed him. Somehow that made Draco more anxious than knowing what he was about to witness.

Inside the parlour once more, the scene in front of them played out just as Draco recalled it. His father dragging him back to the parlour, not yelling, but firmly expressing his disappointment. 

“This brandy is worth more than every present under our tree, Draco,” his father explained. “I do not expect you to grasp the importance of money yet, as I have been remiss in teaching you this lesson. Your mother dotes on you, spoiling you, and on occasion I cannot deny I fall victim to it as well, for seeing your smile does bring me great pride. However, you must learn this lesson now if there is any hope for your future as the heir to our line.” 

“Father,” the young Draco pleaded. He still held the toy broom in his left hand. It trembled as he held it. 

“Come,” was his father’s answer and he dragged Draco to the hearth which was ablaze with the red tendrils of a fire at its peak. Grabbing the iron poker, his father placed it in the flame and after what felt like an eternity, pulled it out again. The end burned orange and yellow like lava flowing from blackened rock. 

There was no warning, no preamble. His father placed the poker on his forearm and held it down despite the ear-shattering cry pouring out of young Draco. He did not relent even when Draco took to begging his father, pleading for mercy. All the while, his father’s face remained as impassive as if he was reading that mornings edition of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . 

This, dear reader, was the first of many lessons his father would bestow upon him. It was, also, the worst lesson for Draco because it tainted his image of his father as a trusted figure in his life, for no matter how cold or distant his father was, young Draco had trusted him implicitly, always believing he had Draco’s best interest at heart like his mother said. 

“Enough,” said Draco. His face grew hot and he felt close to tears, but held them back. He would not give even the memory of his father the satisfaction of seeing him weakened. 

Regulus nodded, agreeing that they saw what they needed to see, and they went together out of the room once more, leaving behind the memories. They exited a door to the gardens at the back of the manor and the scene shifted slightly. The manor was warmer, the sun shone more brightly and the Christmas decor was gone. The long stone pathway in front of them led the way to his mother’s favorite spot among the roses to take her afternoon tea. 

When they arrived, Draco saw himself, even younger than before sitting at his mother’s heels as she sipped languidly at her cup. Her hair was tied back in a bun at the nape of her neck and she wore only a long white dress. Idly, her hand dropped and played with Draco’s hair as he waved a toy wand around shouting  _ Lumos _ .

Her contentedness touched Draco as he watched the scene in front of him. It was one of his fondest memories of his mother. That afternoon had been quiet and full of sweets and toys. The remembering brought tears to Draco’s eyes to see his innocence then and the wonder in his eyes as he pretended to cast spell after spell. 

Regulus touched Draco on the shoulder, bringing his attention away from his mother’s laughter at his younger self’s mispronunciation of  _ Alohomora _ , and pointed to his father who approached them with a newspaper in hand. 

“No, I don’t care to see this part, please,” whispered Draco. “You’ve shown me enough. I understand, alright? I see what you are trying to do. There is no need to show me anymore. I promise, I understand.”

Regulus smiled thoughtfully. “One moment longer, Draco. It is important.”

“Have you seen the papers today, Narcissa?” began his father as he approached them. “Another bloody article about that boy. Have they not exhausted every angle yet? How is there this much to write about an event which took place nearly four years ago.”

A soft smile spread across his mother’s face. “Why do you continue to read that paper when it upsets you so?”

“You know bloody well why I read it. If there is even the faintest clue about our Lord’s whereabouts, I must look into it.”

“Can we not move forward, Lucius? We have Draco to think about.” She looked down at Draco when she said this and young Draco looked up at her, smiling the smile of a young child who gets joy simply from hearing his own name. 

Tossing the paper to the floor, his father exclaimed, “I am thinking of him, Narcissa. It is you who indulges in fantasy. I live in the real world where things like this matter.”

“He is a child, Lucius,” Narcissa pleaded. “Can we not let him be young? Can we not enjoy being parents now that the war is done?”

“You know as well as I that if he still lives, and we do nothing to help him…” Lucius muttered through gritted teeth, showing the most emotion young Draco had ever seen him show. It made him anxious then and even now, as he watched his memory unfold.

“Yes, dear.” Narcissa sighed the sigh of someone who had pleaded the same case over and over. It was the sigh of defeat. “I know.”

“So then you will forgive me if I cannot laze about drinking tea and watching our son play at being a wizard if there is any chance that  _ he _ still draws breath.” 

As his parents talked, younger Draco picked up the paper and pretended to read it, holding it out in front of him like he had seen his father do countless times. 

On the front page, there was a picture of a family. They looked happy; a mother and a father with their infant son. Draco had found himself fascinated by the picture and it’s informality. In his limited experience, people posed for portraits and pictures only when they wore their finest robes and they certainly were not allowed to smile. 

“I wish,” Draco muttered, choking back the tears that threatened to fall. “I wish I had never picked up that paper.” 

“Why?” asked Regulus.

“It was the first time I saw him. Saw Harry,” said Draco, pausing just long enough to watch his younger self stroke the front page of the paper, tracing the smiles of Lily and James Potter. “A curiosity bloomed in me that day. I grew fascinated with him and his parents. If only because they seemed so different from what I knew.” 

Regulus smiled thoughtfully and waved his hand; saying as he did so, “Let us see another memory.” 

Draco’s younger self grew larger at the words and the garden around them shifted into the stairs in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The greenery turned into stone, his parents were replaced by small children in black robes standing nervously in a cluster. There Draco was, young and excited to meet Harry Potter for the first time. He recalled being anxious to tell him just how much like his parents Draco thought he looked, especially his eyes. Draco had spent many hours staring at pictures of Lily and James Potter growing up, dear reader—in fact, he had every article he ever read about them hidden all about in his room at the manor so his father could not find them and burn them. 

“Really?” Draco turned to Regulus. “This? You want to show me one of my greatest rejections? What exactly are you trying to prove to me? That I had a terrible childhood? That I was a terrible child? What do you want me to learn from this?”

“Not learn, Draco,  _ see _ ,” said Regulus, turning his attention back to the scene playing out in front of them. He watched himself, pompous and as self-assured as only an adolescent can be, waltz up to Harry Potter and introduce himself. Upon being snickered at for his name, Draco recited almost verbatim what his father always claimed about the Weasley clan, not thinking how it sounded. And quite frankly, not caring how it sounded. 

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.”

He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry didn’t take it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said coolly.

Draco didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks.

The memory shifted again, the scene rearranging itself becoming the Great Hall on Christmas. From the looks of Draco’s younger self seated between Crabbe and Goyle, it was third year. 

“Is that really what I said?” asked Draco, somberly. He had remembered it differently. He had planned to tell Harry how happy he was to meet him, but something took root in his stomach the moment he felt embarrassment creep in at the snickering and he spurted out things he heard his father say. That feeling in his gut calcified over the years and he grew used to its presence. It was his constant companion. The shame and fear that he was not enough.

Regulus laughed. “Yes and you only managed to get worse.” The apparition stopped at the edge of the table and asked Draco if he knew why they were here.

“Did I perhaps do or say something terrible?” 

The apparition nodded. 

At the sight of Harry in his quidditch uniform, sitting between Granger and Weasley, as he so often was, Draco sighed in exhaustion. “Why this one?”

No response from his ghostly companion. Instead he watched his former self, stand up from the table, grab a handful of mashed potatoes, call out Harry’s name, and lob it across the Great Hall, watching it land on Harry’s head. The Slytherin table erupted in laughter.

The scene shifted, still in the Great Hall, to Draco shoving into Harry and knocking all his books from his arms. Younger Draco then spit on the books and walked away. 

Once more the scene shifted, still in the Great Hall, and Draco watched himself sneering across the hall at Harry who sneered right back. The two of them locked in a battle of wills, the other not wanting to lose. 

“God, I was a twat, wasn’t I? All I did after that first meeting was torture Potter and his mates.”

Regulus eyed him.

“Fine. I’m still a twat. Is that the point of this? You’re telling me I should be nicer to Potter?”

“What do you think?”

“I think this is ridiculous. If I wanted to relive my worst memories, I could just stare into a Pensieve,” said Draco. 

“Why does seeing this bother you so much?”

Draco’s throat dried up at the question; it was not the question per say that caused him such discomfort, but his own answer which sprung into his mind the second Regulus finished asking his question. 

“He hurt me, is that what you want to hear?” cried Draco, all of a sudden not giving one damn who heard him. Tears began to well up in his eyes as the truth spilled forth from him. “That first day, he hurt me more than I can ever remember being hurt and the worst part is, he had every right to hurt me. I still feel he deserves to hurt me. I was mean and unthinking when I spoke to him, but that does not mean his rejection didn’t hurt me. I’d never been rejected like that, humiliated that way.”

“I could show you a great deal more like this,” warned Regulus. “But I won’t.”

With a sigh, Draco sniffled and wiped tears from his cheeks. “Oh, thank Merlin. Can I go to bed now?” He sniffled again, trying to compose himself. 

“Just one more,” said Regulus. His face was impassive, but Draco could see the blackness which covered his fingers, had crept its way up and was peeking out of the collar of his shirt. “Yes, one more and then I feel our time together will be at its end.” 

With that speech, the scene shifted once more to the first time Harry and Draco kissed after one of the pick up matches before they let out for the summer. They had been fighting on the pitch and it had been raining. They were covered in mud and were left alone in the locker rooms while the professors discussed their punishment.

“Merlin, Potter, why must you be such an irredeemable git?” asked Draco as he yanked off his mud soaked shirt and tossed it to the ground with a wet plop. “We’ll likely have detention for a month. My father will hear about this, mark my words.”

“Me? You’re the one who just had to start in on Ginny.” Harry pulled his shirt up, revealing his torso which was covered in red spots from where Draco landed some blows during their skirmish. 

Turning to face his foe, younger Draco smirked and said, “Oh, poor thing. Did I hurt your little girlfriend's feelings?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my  _ friend _ ,” shouted Potter, moving forward so he and Draco were an arms length apart. “You know friendship, don’t you? Oh, right you don’t. If your daddy didn’t pay people to associate with you, you’d be all by yourself.”

“You take that back.” Draco moved in closer and clenched his fists at his side. They were still sore from punching Harry in the ribs on the pitch and it ached to form fists, but he was ready to strike if Harry said one more unkind word. Draco almost wished Harry would just so he could uncoil the shame in his gut by hurting him. 

Harry smirked, knowing he struck a chord. “Or what? You’ll call your daddy-waddykins and tell him I wasn’t being nice to you?”

“Potter, you shut your mouth. I swear, or I’ll…”

“You’ll what? Try to have me expelled,” said Harry. He moved in closer still, so close that his breath ghosted over Draco’s mouth as he spoke. “Oh, wait, you did that and failed. How about get me killed? Oh, no, tried and failed once more. Isn’t there anything you’re good at besides crying to your daddy when things don’t go your way, Malfoy?” 

A hot flush of embarrassment burned through Draco and he knew his cheeks were pink and it was only partly due to his embarrassment at Harry’s accusation. A greater part of his body reacted to Harry’s proximity. He hated when Harry got close to him like this when they fought for it brought to surface feelings which he worked tirelessly to ignore. Things like how his body reacted to their closeness, to Harry’s bare chest. Things like his damnable fascination with the curve of Harry’s arse, or the way he bit his lower lip when he concentrated in Potions. 

Caught in a trap of his own making, Draco tasted his pulse on his tongue. “You have no idea, do you? Not one single clue about how the world works, Potter,” Draco choked out, trying to step back but hitting the wall behind him, effectively backing himself into a corner. 

“And you do?” Harry was on him again with a fierceness in his verdant eyes. His bare chest was slicked wet from rain and sweat. A small trail of dark hair ran from navel to his waistband. “You aren’t ever down off your high horse long enough to see the world as it is, you absolute prat. You think the world owes you something, but it doesn’t. You think you’re better than me, but you’re not.”

Draco lifted a hand to punch Harry because it seemed a better alternative than the one his body had in mind, but it was caught and pinned to the wall behind him before he gained any momentum. Lifting his other hand and ignoring the desire pooling in his stomach, Draco tried once more. Harry caught his hand again and pinned it to the wall over his head along with his other. Harry’s reflexes were quick and Draco barely had a moment to register what happened before they were face to face, nose to nose, and a yearning long ignored overtook him with all the fury of a hurricane. He launched forward and crashed his lips on Harry’s without thinking of the consequence. 

Their teeth collided and Harry pulled back, confusion on his face. There was a moment where Draco held his breath, expecting a blow that never came because Harry’s face shifted and he pushed forward to capture Draco in another kiss. This time, their teeth only collided for a moment before they opened their mouths to one another. The rest of the kiss was wet and slippery and frantic. Draco struggled against Harry’s grip on his wrists, but Harry held him firm against the wall and kissed him until Draco thought he would die from lack of oxygen. 

Harry pushed their bodies flush, crushing Draco into the wall behind him. He could hardly breathe, but nothing in the world could pull him away from the taste of Harry’s lips. It was a mixture of blood, sweat, and mud, but nothing had ever been so satisfying to Draco as this. He bucked forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against Harry’s hip. It was impulsive and rash, but he was met with Harry’s deep growl of a moan and felt encouraged to rock into him again and again. 

Draco’s wrists grew sore from the grip Harry had on them, but he didn’t struggle or try to release himself. Instead he rocked into Harry until they were both panting and heaving. Their breath shaky and warm on each others faces. Then with a moan and a whimper, Harry slumped into Draco loosening his grip on Draco’s wrists. He breathed heavy against Draco’s chest and then suddenly shot up, blinked fiercely at Draco, bare chest heaving and lips swollen, and ran from the locker room without bothering to redress. 

During the whole of this time, Draco was swept up in the memory. His heart, his soul, his mind were in that moment with his former self. He felt the mud on his trousers, the bruises on his ribs, remembered how Harry’s breath felt on his lips, and even felt the desire pooling inside of him as it did that day. It was not until this realization that Draco remembered Regulus and turned to see the apparition watching him. 

“Interesting isn’t it? How fine that line is between desire and anger,” said Regulus. “Both make us behave rashly and often the consequences are unexpected.” 

“We didn’t speak about that day, not until October when he shoved me into an empty classroom and ripped my robes off. At least that time he spoke to me before running away and we decided it was no one's concern if we occasionally met to release tension. It was a fine arrangement until he decided he wanted to talk about things like his feelings,” said Draco to Regulus, but really the words were for himself. 

See, dear reader, our endearingly naive Draco was beginning to understand a bit more about the world around him, to see his mistakes in front of him, and to understand that his discontent with his life was more or less his own doing. Though he would not admit it to his ghostly companion, he suspected Regulus was right to show him these memories. They reminded him of something he locked away long ago. They reminded him what it was to be filled with wonder at possibility and to recognize it when it stood in front of him just as he had when he was younger and not so beaten down by the world. 

Draco turned upon his ghostly tour guide, and said, “I’ve had enough. I see what you want me to see, Regulus. Take me to my room so I may think over what you have shown me.”

Regulus nodded and took Draco by the hand, with a snap they were back in his dorm room and the sinking feeling Draco felt at reliving that last memory was beginning to fade away. He was aware that his entire body was exhausted from their travels, but his mind was as awake as it had ever been replaying some of Harry’s words from earlier that evening; words which, more and more, Draco was beginning to trust. 

Without a final word, his room lit up once more and he was left alone to await his next ghostly visitor.  


	4. The Third Unfortunate Ghost

Awakened by his own head bobbing forward with such force that it startled him from his sleep, and sitting upright on the edge of his bed, Draco had no idea he’d let himself doze off as he mused about what Regulus had shown him. 

His intention had been to stay alert and watch the time in anticipation of his next visitor so as to not be caught unaware. There was a feeling in his gut that told him he awoke just in time for his next encounter and a quick  _ Tempus _ charm corroborated his feelings showing it to be one minute to two. Upon this confirmation, Draco felt a tingle run up his spine wondering which of his senses would be assaulted by the ghost's entrance, would it be a blinding light once more, or a gust of wind? Perhaps the ghost would engulf the room in flames. That would certainly get his attention. As you can imagine, dearest reader, Draco was not keen on being surprised once more by a deluge of ghostly power. 

Now, no one had ever accused Draco Malfoy of being free and easy, in fact, he was likely the most stubborn, inflexible, and difficult person at Hogwarts next to Hermione Granger, of course. Be that as it may, I don’t mind telling you that by this hour of the evening, Draco felt a certain calm wash over him and decided that there was nothing the next ghoul could do that might throw him short of bringing Harry Potter to his room so they may actually  _ discuss _ their feelings. Perish the thought. 

Prepared as he was for another onslaught of, dare he think it, wind or light, Draco was not indeed ready for  _ nothing _ , which is precisely what happened when the hour struck two. There was no gust of wind, nor a bright light that blinded him; only him alone, sitting on the edge of his bed with his wand at the ready looking quite foolish in his pajamas. It occurred to him, as he sat rigid with anticipation, that the ghost might possibly have arrived in the common room; for he, like many of us, would in the face of the impossible, apply logic to a situation in which logic may not always serve. 

Then the possibility that it was all a dream crossed his mind, but his curiosity won out. If there was a ghost waiting in the common room, he found himself wanting to know. Thinking thusly, he stood quickly and headed to his door, upon which he laid his free hand. A sliver of light came in from the crack of the door.

The moment Draco turned the knob, a strange voice called him by his name, and directed him to come to the common room. He obeyed. 

It was the common room. No doubt there; however it was slightly altered and appeared to him as a grove of holly, mistletoe, and ivy. It was as if Christmas had exploded all over the common room. Lights shone and candles adorned the mantle, flickering their lights and casting shadows on the wall behind them. There were stockings as well, one with his own name scrawled across it in an elegant hand. In the corner, a tall pine tree stood, decorated in silvers and blues. It reminded Draco of the tree he had once as a child; a tree which he accidentally ruined with his childish notion of hanging something he, himself, made which his father tore down and threw in the hearth.  

In the middle of the common room, where once stood the long, uncomfortable L-shaped couch, a small pond existed with still water reflecting the lights in the room. At the edge of the water, a doe and a stag lay comfortably, nipping at one another and lapping up water from the pond. They looked quite serene. 

“Join us, Draco,” exclaimed the stag. As he spoke, he shifted before Draco’s eyes into James Potter. His hair matched Harry’s, a tangled mess of jet black. Draco had a moment to wonder about how a hairstyle could be genetic before the doe transformed into Lily Potter. Her eyes were somehow greener than the grove around them. 

Draco approached them timidly, and looked at the pond rather than make eye contact with the ghosts of Harry’s parents. He felt a pang of guilt at their presence. Their deaths being at the hand of the wizard he’d vowed to serve, at the hand of the man who Draco was supposed to follow blindly and without a fuss as his father did. If doubt had ever been in Draco’s mind before, it was cemented there now as he avoided meeting their gazes. 

“Look at us, Draco,” the soft voice of Lily Potter said. “We’ve come to help you.”

With a sigh, Draco lifted his head to meet their gaze. Lily was clothed in a velvet green dress, bordered with golden stitching. She looked like an elegant Lady attending a renaissance ball. Her partner, James, wore dark green trousers and a white flowing shirt, tucked in at the waist. He, too, looked like he was attending a ball. Both figures were barefooted and adorned with a holly wreath crown. 

“You look surprised to see us,” said James as he wrapped an arm around Lily’s shoulders, pulling them closer together. She smiled brightly up at him. 

“I, well, I am,” muttered Draco. “I was expecting a ghost, but not you.”

“If not us, who were you expecting?” asked Lily.

“I don’t rightly know,” admitted Draco. In all his wondering, dear reader, the possibility that he would be visited by the Potter’s had never occurred to him and why should it, when he thought himself unworthy of love and them being the highest form of love themselves considering their sacrifices to save Harry. “This night has been a bit of a shock all around, but I must admit this is more unnerving than my last visitor. At least I understood my connection to him, as he is my relative. I am unsure why you would visit me.”

“I thought that much would be obvious,” said James, winking. “We might be family someday, if you can get your head out of your arse.”

“Don’t tease the poor boy,” responded Lily. 

“Can’t I tease him, just a bit?” whined James.

Lily smirked. “Okay, but only a bit. We are on a tight schedule, dearest.” 

“Yes, my love,” said James in a perfect impression of a love sick teen. He turned to Draco and his face was quite serious. His brow furrowed, his lips in a tight line. James then asked, “What are your intentions with our son then?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked sternly at Draco.

The question was so obscenely absurd that Draco found when he opened his mouth to respond, nothing came out, and he was left flapping his mouth open and shut like a fish. He went on in this manner for a few minutes. Flapping his mouth and stammering variants of ‘um’ and ‘er.’

“Oh, dear, I think you’ve broken him,” said Lily. 

James leaned forward and whispered, “Do you intend to answer me, Draco?”

“Yes, uh, sir, uh James, uh, Mr. Potter, sir.” Draco felt his hand twitch, for he was about to salute James Potter and had no idea what compelled him so as he had never in his life saluted anyone. Dear reader, I must express a slight bit of amusement at Draco’s reaction here though I do feel sympathy for him as well, poor boy. 

“Well then do you intend to let him and everyone else suffer because you are scared and ashamed? You don’t feel guilt at your actions? Refusing to tell Harry what you know about Voldemort’s plans. You know it could get them killed and yet,” said James as he spread his hands out in front of him, “here you are, Draco, letting your fears cloud your judgement. You already know the right path. Why won’t you take it?”

“Wh—what do you mean?” Draco asked, but he knew the answer. He knew the path James meant was the exact path Harry had asked him to follow, over and over. And Draco was afraid, though he would not admit it now, and he was ashamed, for he thought who could possibly love or forgive him as he was, if even his own father could not.

“My son is an amazing young man. He deserves happiness. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Y—yes, I agree.” And Draco did agree that Harry deserved wonderful things, but he did not agree that he was a part of that.

James smiled softly and he looked so earnest, so like Harry. “Then don’t fuck this up, yeah?”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Draco and truly he didn’t. Shock was not even the beginning of what he felt at hearing James discuss his relationship with Harry as if it was completely rational and not something impossible. 

“Say you will do better,” said James matter of factly. 

“I am so confused.” Draco covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. Seeing his past had been easier than dealing with this nonsense. Even watching his father burn him had been more palatable than James Potter giving Draco relationship advice.

“Mmm,” murmured James contemplatively. “I expect it will only go on getting more confusing, eh?”

“I suppose,” agreed Draco. He tried to look away from James, but found he could not. He gulped and asked the question that he wasn’t sure he wanted answered. “So what is it you want to show me then? The last one showed me my past. I expect he wanted to show me what a prick I’ve been. Is that your plan, too, because if it is, I promise, that lesson has stuck. I don’t need another one.”

“He is quite snarky, isn’t he?” asked Lily. “Sirius did warn us, but I didn’t believe him. You know how he likes to exaggerate.”

James smiled. “Sirius did warn us, indeed. I suppose you owe him an apology, dearest.” 

“Sirius Black?” Draco asked, though he knew no other Sirius Black, so his question was quite foolish. His head was in a fog.

“He told us you had a bit of...what did he call it, dear?” Lily turned to her husband and winked before answering her own question. “Ah, I remember, a chip on his shoulder.” 

“I do not,” asserted Draco, but he knew it to be a lie. James and Lily only stared at him. “Okay, maybe, I do, but it is a small chip.”

With a jolly laugh, James bade Draco to join hands with them. Apprehensively, Draco did as he was told and joined hands with the Potters, though he could not get over the ridiculousness of the scene. 

The grove around them, the decorations and tree, all disappeared around in a flourish. So, too, did Slytherin common room and the light from the fireplace, and now they stood in the Astronomy Tower. It was night and the moon shone brightly, full and big in the sky. 

Draco saw himself standing at the edge, looking over the railing at the grounds. His shirt was unbuttoned and hung lazily off his shoulders. To his right, stood Harry in a similar state of undress. His tie was still around his neck, though it was loosened considerably. In their rush to be near one another, they didn’t bother taking off all their clothes. Draco remembered this night. It had only been one night ago.

“I really do wish I had the chance to have the talk with him,” James said, startling Draco. 

“Why so you could embarrass him?” Lily retorted. 

Draco swallowed and tried to hide the embarrassment on his face at Harry’s parents seeing them after they had just finished having sex. It was beyond mortifying. 

“It’s a father's right, Lily,” James answered and puffed up his chest. Lily only shoved him playfully in response. He laughed and so, too, did she. It lit up their faces and Draco found himself wishing he and Harry could have this easy, familiar kind of conversation. Usually, such a thought embarrassed him, but seeing James and Lily now, Draco felt less ashamed to want, less ashamed to hope that someone could look at him the way they looked at each other. 

“Draco,” Harry’s voice came as a whisper and the three of them, Draco and Lily and James, turned their attention to the scene in front of them.

“Yes, Potter?” Memory Draco asked. He did not look at Harry as he spoke, but instead watched the moon. 

“Wh-why won’t you let me hold you after?” Harry’s voice was quiet and he held himself around the middle as he spoke. His cheeks still held the flush of orgasm and his hair was matted down with the kind of sweat one can work up, even in the cool of a winter's night. 

Draco scoffed. “What point is there in it?”

Moving away from the edge of the tower, Draco wiped a tear away from his cheek before Harry could see. He blinked back the rest of the tears that threatened to fall. 

“Does everything need to have a point?” Harry’s voice came from behind him. Harry reached out a hand to touch Draco’s back, but Draco flinched at the touch. 

Draco turned to face Harry and took a deep breath. “Yes, the point of this is to release tensions, or at least that is what it is to me. What purpose would lounging about holding one another accomplish?”

“Is that really all this is for you?” Harry asked forcefully. His hands balled into fists, but his eyes betrayed him. They were welling up. His voice came out unsure at first. “M—maybe at first, sure, but you can’t still think that. You can’t.”

Draco felt angry now. Why couldn’t Harry just leave things as they were, wasn’t it enough? Draco clenched his jaw and closed the space between them. He balled his hands into fists, ready to fight Harry if it came to that. “And why the hell not, Potter?”

Harry did not move away, but leaned in and touched their foreheads together then he wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling their bodies together. “I see you, Draco. When we’re, well, you know, and you look at me so openly, I know you feel it too, even if you won’t say so.”

“I have no idea what you mean, Potter,” Draco whispered into Harry’s mouth, feeling himself growing aroused simply by being this close. Tentatively, Harry moved in for a kiss and Draco let him. Their lips soft against one another, a demure kiss compared to the one that started their night. It held nothing of the desperation that many of their kisses held. It was gentle and it made Draco’s stomach flip. It felt like free falling to catch a snitch. He held his breath, unwilling to break the kiss even for a moment. 

Pulling back, Harry watched Draco. His eyes searching. “This is more than a release for me, Draco. You know that.” Harry cupped Draco’s face and stoked along his cheek bone. “You have to see that. I want you, all of you, but you refuse to let me in.”

“Potter, why must you ruin this?” Draco’s voice was shaky and he hated Harry in that moment. He hated feeling vulnerable. He hated  _ wanting _ . He shoved Harry’s hands away from his face in one harsh movement. 

“Ruin it? But Draco—”

Draco threw his hands up and sighed. He was angry that Harry was going to make him say it. “You are, well, you’re  _ you _ and I am  _ me _ . Are you really so naive as to think that doesn’t mean anything? It does, you know. It means something to everyone and...it means something to  _ me _ .”

“What does it mean, then?” Harry asked. 

“It means you are good, pure, loved, and—and I’m not. You cannot possibly understand what having all of me would consist of, what you’re asking me to show you. The things I have done and continue to do, those things would change how you feel about me.”

“How can you be so sure? You can tru—”

Draco cut Harry off with a wave of his hand. “Potter, please, don’t. You’ve seen my arm. You know what I am. Who I answer to. I cannot come back from this. Just don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“I know what you’re going to say. It’s what you always say.” Draco backed away and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do not ask me to trust you.”

Harry moved forward, hand outstretched. “Trust me.”

“It won’t work,” Draco asserted. He motioned between them and said, “This, you and me, it won’t work.”

“Can’t we try?”

“No,” Draco said and grabbed up the rest of his clothes. He tucked them under his arm and started to button his shirt. Harry tried to reach for his hand as he did so, but Draco snatched it away. “Stop”

“Draco…”

“I can’t,” said Draco then he turned and ran down the stone steps, leaving Harry alone with the moon in the sky. Memory Harry stood there, watching the spot where Memory Draco had disappeared down the stairs. After a moment, he let out a sob and fell to his knees, crying quietly as the moonlight shone on him.

“Harsh,” Lily’s voice broke the silence between the three onlookers. James nodded in agreement. “I imagine if we follow you, we would see no tears on your part since all this was to you was a way to release tension, right?”

Draco did not answer. He could not tear his eyes away from the crying Harry, who held himself and shuddered with every shaky breath.

“I think we should take a look anyway, just to compare notes.” Lily raised her hand as if she was going to snap her fingers. 

Draco mumbled, still watching Memory Harry as he cried. “I don’t want to see.”

With her hand still raised, poised to snap and change the scene, Lily asked, “And why not?”

“Do you need to hear me beg?”

“Maybe,” Lily smirked and turned to James, who nodded his approval on how she was handling the situation. Their complete trust in one another was like a slap after what Draco had seen. 

“I beg you. Don’t show it to me,” said Draco with a whimper. He felt his face get hot, but managed to keep the tears from streaming down his cheeks. “Please don’t make me watch myself breakdown in the stairwell. It was hard enough to get up and move on the first time, now it would feel impossible.”

Lily shrugged. “I’ll take it.”

“Shall we be off?” James asked, finally speaking up.

“We shall,” Lily agreed and snapped her fingers. The scene shifted again and Draco realized they were in the middle of the Gryffindor common room on Christmas Eve, where Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged gifts as they sat in a circle in front of their tree. The unwrapping of paper and rustling of bows made a pleasant sort of music as the three smiled and joked how Hermione was rubbish at wrapping. 

The room was opposite the Slytherin dorm in every way. The oranges and reds of the sunset poured in from the tall windows, blanketing them in the soft, easy glow of the setting sun. Frost tinted the panes at the edges giving it a distinctly Christmas look. The furniture was all shades of red from maroon couch to a light pink ottoman to burgundy carpets. And they thought Slytherins were obnoxious, Draco mused. 

There was the smell of fresh baked cookies and Draco spotted a small plate on the floor next to their unwrapped gifts. The trio wore wool sweaters, each with their first initial stitched to the front. Harry’s was green to match his eyes and Draco, in spite of himself, thought how wonderful Harry looked. Even with his tangled hair and crooked glasses, he looked more happy than Draco had ever seen him. Hermione and Ron, as well. A moment of envy overtook Draco at how easy they were around each other. 

It was then that Draco remembered his companions and how while he might be reliving his worst memories, they were watching the son they lost. He felt a pang of guilt at not thinking of it sooner. Thinking of it now, he looked to James and Lily Potter. They held each other and smiled warmly at the picture in front of them. Their eyes were glistening with tears, but they did not look sad. They were watching their son, who had been stolen from them in the cruelest manner, and to Draco’s surprise there was no hint of anger, or flicker of rage, nor even a whiff of envy. In fact, they looked happy, which left Draco; as you, dear readers, might expect, flabbergasted—“flabbergasted” here meaning “greatly astonished.” It is no wonder as he does not have much experience with showing favorable emotions thanks to his father.  

Seeing their faces alight with such happiness, gave Draco the urge to look upon the scene once more, but through a more favorable lense. There was nothing new that he took in this time, but somehow the scene before him felt happier when he let himself enjoy it without fear of being ridiculed. There was still a ruddy looking Christmas tree whose branches were weighed down with an overzealous amount of ornaments, most of which looked handmade. The presents were still half-open and badly wrapped, but Draco noticed the lettering on them—scrawled in their own hand and signed “love.” The cookies were so fresh that the chips were melting onto the plate before they had a chance to be eaten. The sweaters looked hand stitched and Draco felt himself smile at the thought of someone taking the time to make something from scratch instead of sending a house elf to do the shopping; there was never a gift under his own tree growing up that his father had not been just as surprised to see as Draco upon opening it and while the gifts were always what he wanted, there had been a little nagging voice in his mind that told him his father did not pick the gifts out and that somehow made them less special.

The presents. Oh, the presents the three exchanged, were perhaps, the most heartwarming part of it all; not that Draco would admit to his heart being warmed by the three of them, no sir, not in this lifetime!

It was not that the presents were fine or expensive or even impressive, or that they were sentimental and perfectly suited to each recipient, or that they were even practical gifts that may help them in the coming days of the war. No, it was simply that they had exchanged gifts at all. Draco, in all his years at Hogwarts, had neither given nor received a gift from his mates. It simply wasn’t done, and though oft times he wished things were different, he knew it was for the best to not indulge in emotion. It was what father taught him. 

Harry had in front of him a set of quills and ink, likely a gift from Hermione. They were not the most impressive set, but Draco spied that the box that held them was engraved with a stag and doe. 

“I did the spell work myself for the engraving,” admitted Hermione sheepishly. She smiled and tucked her frizzy hair behind her ears. 

“It’s beautiful, Hermione,” said Harry. 

And while it was a beautiful gesture, Draco noted that the engraving was a bit shaky and the lines were not perfect. All the same, Harry seemed to mean what he said and looked upon the box fondly, tracing the outlines of the stag and doe with his index finger. 

Hermione smiled and finished opening the present in front of her. It was a delicate silver chain with a feather pendant on the end. “Ronald, this is lovely. Where did you get it?”

“A man is allowed a bit of mystery isn’t he?” joked Ron.

“Why a feather?” asked Hermione.

“The first spell you taught me, remember?” Ron smiled and a bit of red settled in his cheeks at the memory. “It’s Leviosa, not Leviosa.”

The three of them erupted in laughter. Hermione, falling into Ron and leaning on his shoulder easily. 

“I love it,” said Hermione. 

“Now you, Ron,” said Harry shoving a poorly wrapped gift into his lap. Hermione did not move from her place at Ron’s side. 

Ron held the gift up with one hand and shook it near his ear. It rattled. “Hmm, could it be a set of maracas?”

“Just open it, you git,” said Harry.

“Fine, fine,” said Ron. “Rush me if you must.” 

When he finished with the unwrapping, which he made quite a showing of doing if Draco did say so himself, the present was revealed to be a portable chess set. The board itself being the box that held the pieces. 

“Harry, this is great. Thanks,” said Ron as he opened the box and pulled out each piece, inspecting them as he did and smiling all the while. 

In time all the presents were opened, each one being as thoughtful as the previous; and yet there was a part of Draco that wondered at the kindness each time they exchanged. Every gift was met with a thanks and words of love. 

“Why are you showing me this?” asked Draco, finally, after no longer being able to stand the silence of Lily and James at his side. 

“Don’t be daft. You know why,” answered Lily, her red hair swaying behind her like a curtain as she turned to look at Draco. When he did not respond, she added, “You needed to hear it, obviously.”

“Okay, but why?”

“Because you need it,” said Lily simply, not looking as if she was going to expand on it at all. 

Offended, Draco stepped back. How dare they tell him what he needed? These ghosts didn’t know him. They didn’t know anything. His heart hammered in his chest at the implication that he needed any of them. Need, want; those were not luxuries Draco could afford now, not with the Dark Lord breathing down his neck.

“I don’t need this. I don’t need anything from you lot. Or from him.” Draco pointed to Harry who was busy clearing up the wrapping paper the muggle way, bunching it into a ball as he added a new piece to his hand. 

“There is no need to be offended, Draco. We all need to hear kind words from those closest to us. There is no shame in that, no weakness in affection,” said James. 

There was nothing, dear reader, that could have upset Draco more than hearing such a speech from a father about love and affection. As a child, he craved that kind of speech from his own father and was told, many a time, that it was enough to simply know he was loved. Silly displays of affection were extraneous and ludicrous and quite seriously not necessary.

Lucius did love his son, dear reader, though not in any  _ kind _ way. It was vanity that drove his affection for Draco and as a child, that difference may not seem to be a problem, but over time, Draco realized that the love he received from his father was not the kind of love other kids talked about. It made him quite angry and quite incapable of trusting any love that did not resemble that which he received from his father. No matter how badly he wanted to.

With that thought, Draco was quite ready to head back to his dorm, to the relative normalcy, or what passes for it at Hogwarts at least, when he heard the most curious thing. 

“So Harry, are you going to tell us who you’ve been running off to snog or am I going to have to start guessing?” asked Hermione. Her tone was playful, but her eyes narrowed in on Harry like he was a very serious potions equation that she must get just so or else it will explode. “It’s Christmas, Harry, come now and tell us. We both know I will sniff it out eventually.” 

From his cozy spot on the floor, nuzzled up against the most ghastly maroon ottoman Draco had ever had the misfortune of looking at, Harry said, “I’ve not been snogging anyone.” 

“Liar,” accused Ron. He had his arm draped across Hermione’s shoulders. “We saw you run off last week after Potions.”

“And the week before that,” added Hermione thoughtfully. 

“Stalkers,” quipped Harry, smiling at his mates. “Fine, I have been snogging someone. What business it is of yours then who I’m meeting?”

“It’s not my sister is it?” asked Ron. 

A delightful laugh came from Harry. “No.”

“Phew. I mean, you're my best mate, you know? And she’s had a crush on you for a while now, but I really think it’d be weird. You two.”

“I’d have to agree,” said Hermione. “It’s not Cho again is it?”

“No and it won’t be any of the other people you’re thinking either.”

Ron eyed Harry suspiciously. “And why not?” 

“Because, uh, well, because it's a bloke.” 

Ron and Hermione, to their credit, only paused a moment before stuttering out platitudes ranging from ‘I had no idea’ to ‘That’s cool.’ 

Draco didn’t like to see Harry looking so vulnerable; I suspect, dear reader, it was due to the fact that Draco himself did not like to be vulnerable and as we know being around Harry made him feel so, and that is likely why he expected Harry to be ashamed or to lie when asked, for it is what Draco would have likely done if faced with a similar line of questions. 

At Harry’s confession, Draco turned to see James smile at Lily as he said, “Told you so. You owe me a galleon.” 

“He only told them that he liked blokes, not which one. When he does that you’ll have your galleon but not a moment sooner,” said Lily. She punctuated with a small huff and a smile. 

A thought occurred to Draco. “Do ghosts have...money?”

The pair, James and Lily, laughed in perfect unison. Thusly, James said, “It’s a figure of speech. Just a nice way to pass eternity by making bets about the living. Get this, we’ve got one going with Sirius about how long it will take Snape to…” 

Lily elbowed James in the ribs before he could continue. 

“He forgets himself,” said Lily with a smile.

Eyeing the pair, Draco nodded and smiled back, not knowing what else to say. Somehow they were odder than Myrtle had been for at least Myrtle acted like she had died. It was easier to accept her as a ghost with all the wailing and being transparent. Even Regulus had looked like he was decaying, but Lily and James looked as alive as Draco with their pink cheeks and heartfelt smiles every time they caught the other looking at them, or at their son. 

“Harry, you can tell us who, you know?” said Ron. “No judgments, mate. I mean take Hermione? She snogged Krum and we treat her the same.”

Sitting up straight, finally leaving her nest at Ron’s side, Hermione said, “Viktor was quite the gentleman, I’ll have you know. Someone’s just jealous because he had a crush, too.”

“Oi, I did not,” laughed Ron.

“Hate to break it to you mate, but you did,” agreed Harry. 

“I suppose I might have done,” said Ron. “But only a tiny one.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you, but you’ll think I’ve gone mad,” said Harry. He bunched up his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “It’s Malfoy.”

Draco hung his head to hear those words come so easily from Harry’s mouth. Silence filled the room and Draco felt his mouth go dry, as if he’d been traversing a desert for weeks with no sign of water. His heart hammered in his ears and he felt himself wobble, slightly unsteady. 

“Pay up, Evans,” said James through laughter.

“How’s that work?” asked Ron.

“Don’t be daft, Ronald,” chided Hermione.

Realization dawned on Ron and he scrunched up his face. “Merlin, not like that. I know how  _ that _ works. I mean how do you manage to not kill each other? Not trying to be unsupportive, mate, but you two sort of, well, you know.”

“That’s the thing, sometimes we really hurt one another. Get into it, you know? Throwing punches. And then the next minute, we’re snogging, but I can’t stop thinking about him when we’re apart. I even think about him fondly. I miss him when he’s away from me. I miss him right now actually. Am I crazy?”

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione as she scooted across the floor to sit in front of him. She laid her hands over his knees which were still bunched up in front of him. “You’re not crazy at all.” 

Joining them, Ron added, “Maybe a bit crazy.”

“Ronald,” snapped Hermione.

“Only joking, mate,” said Ron, patting Harry on the shoulder. 

“Do you think your feelings for Malfoy are more than physical?” asked Hermione. 

At the mention of his name, Draco realized he did not want to hear the answer to that question, so he turned on his heels and addressed his ghostly companions. “Let’s go. I’ve seen enough.”

“You don’t want to hear what he will say?” asked Lily. 

“I know what he will say. He’s already made it clear to me that he wishes me to abandon my family and betray the Dark Lord to be with him,” said Draco. 

By this time it was snowing quite heavily; as Draco spoke he looked out the windows and could see the thick flakes floating downward. It was the kind of snowfall that was good for snowballs and snowmen and snow angels. 

Harry, all bunched up, bowed his head to his knees and groaned. A soft mumble of an answer came forth, but it was difficult to make out entirely. 

“Take me away from here, now,” demanded Draco, but his two companions only stared off in the direction of their son. 

“Harry, I didn’t hear you,” said Hermione.

With a sigh, Harry answered, “Yes, it’s more than physical.”

Once he gave his answer, Harry laughed and Ron and Hermione with him. The trio laughed and laughed; it was not a cruel laugh, like that of a joke, but the kind of relieved laugh one does after a tense moment passes and all is well. 

Harry began his tale by explaining their first encounter and how it had caught him so off guard that he hadn’t slept for three days straight. Sure he had been thinking that he liked blokes by that point, but it was still a shock to have his first proper kiss with a bloke be with Draco Malfoy. And after a fight to boot.

The two of his mates listened as he spoke, nodding along and laughing at the part where Draco and Harry were almost found out by McGonagall one day after Transfigurations; and Harry himself let out a laugh at the memory. Ron was a sore sport when he found out Harry had beaten him at Snogwarts Bingo—“Snogwarts Bingo” here refers to a game some of the older students have going about the most absurd places to snog on the grounds and whoever gets Bingo wins a Weasley Wizard Wheezes joke box. 

Also Ron blushed when Harry told him about that thing Draco did with his tongue (that part made Lily and James blush, too), at which point Hermione told him to grow up because “it’s just sex, Ronald.” All the time the fire roared in the hearth and the snow fell; and Draco found himself transfixed listening to Harry speak mostly pleasantly about him. It made him want to believe Harry’s constant insistence that he would protect Draco. 

There was nothing Draco could have done to prepare himself for the feeling in his chest when Harry admitted that kissing Draco was the only thing keeping him sane all year. Their connection was not a storybook one, not by a long shot; they were perfectly mismatched in as many ways as they were perfectly matched for one another; and Draco knew his family would not stand for it; and Harry knew that Draco had done terrible things; and they both knew those things stood between them, separating them. But, they were falling in love, in spite of circumstances, pleased with one another in the most confusing ways; and when it came down to it, Harry knew Draco had a better heart than he let on.

“If only Draco could admit it,” finished Harry. “But every time I try to talk, he shoves me into an empty classroom. I even tried to bring up protecting him if he decided to switch sides.”

“And what was his response?” asked Hermione. To her credit, she did not once let her own issues with Draco cloud her support for her friend, nor did she think unkindly of Draco even though he rightly deserved it. 

“He told me it was impossible and that I was being foolish. That they would kill him if he betrayed them and then he punched me.”

“I mean,” said Ron, “I don’t think he’s wrong. Mind, I don’t like him one bit, Harry, but he has a point. His father is relentless and clearly very cruel. You think if Malfoy switched sides his father wouldn’t come after him? Let alone Voldemort. He’s already after us and if Malfoy betrays his plan, there’s no telling what danger that would put all of us in.”

“We’re already in  danger, Ron. All of us, including Draco. I’d do anything to keep him safe,” said Harry. 

“It’s asking a lot, that’s all I’m saying,” said Ron. 

“Do you think he even wants that?” asked Hermione after a few moments of silence passed between them. “Do you think he wants to switch sides?”

Harry paused a moment and considered. “Yes, yes I do.”

“Then we will help you to help him, won’t we Ronald?”

Ron nodded. “Anything for you, mate.”

Finally, James and Lily agreed it was time to be on their way. They took Draco by the hand and the world seemed to be pulled out from under his feet and then slipped back under again. When he opened his eyes, they were back in the Slytherin common room. 

“Be wary, Draco, of your tendency to isolate yourself,” said Lily as she started to fade away becoming transparent like Myrtle. 

“Yeah, mate, don’t be a prat? Our boy likes you and I think you like him. Take a leap of faith. That’s all it takes, one leap of faith,” said James and he too began to fade. 

“It—It was nice to meet you,” said Draco and meant it. 

They smiled and then they were gone, leaving Draco alone in the common room with one more ghost on his dance card. 


	5. The Last Unfortunate Ghost

The last ghost approached slowly, and without any theatrics. No wind, no light, no forest scene, only the darkness persisted. 

When it came to Draco, shrouded in a dark cloak, he felt hollowed out with sadness suddenly and without any reason to feel it. The room grew even colder and Draco saw his breath fog in front of his face. That’s when he realized, to his dismay, that the only creature capable of such things was a Dementor. 

It wore a deep black robe that was ripped at the bottoms; its face was concealed, in fact everything was concealed except one boney hand with a finger pointing outward. Draco remembered these things from third year when they roamed around the campus. He’d pretended he hadn’t feared them, but the sorrow and dread that followed them wherever they roamed shook him to his core. 

That year, a rogue Dementor followed Draco from the quidditch pitch after a practice. It lurked at the edge of the pathway until finally it stood between Draco and the entrance to the castle. The creature touched him, only for a moment, before Professor Snape caught up with them and chased the creature away. The emptiness he felt then had been so complete. It was as if the Dementor stole what made him human and he had no idea how to get it back. After that incident, Draco spent weeks trying to shake the feeling by taunting Harry and his mates into fights just to feel something, anything, that wasn’t the complete emptiness the Dementor left him with that evening. It affected him so much so that being faced with one now it was all he could do to stand in its presence without breaking down. 

He felt sure he was to die when the figure stood by his side; one kiss from a Dementor and everything would cease to exist. He was not foolish enough to think he could escape this scenario, for he never learned how to cast a  _ Patronus Charm _ .

A cool sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried to think of some spell, any spell, that might free him from the emptiness creeping in on him. For a dark, dark moment, dear reader, Draco let himself entertain the idea of dying as something not all together inconvenient, for it would mean the end to his pursuit of fixing the Vanishing Cabinet and end his indecision over Harry. He did not necessarily want to die, no, but the idea of being released from his obligations was tempting. 

The figure did not speak, but it did place a bony hand on Draco’s shoulder. A shudder went through his body at the Dementor's touch. It was just like that night third year. Draco felt everything good in him go out like a candle being snuffed. He could only think of one reason the Dementor would be his last visitor. 

“I die? Is that what you’ve come to tell me?” Draco asked the cloaked figure, not entirely expecting an answer. Not entirely wanting one either. A fear had settled in him the moment the Dark Lord came to live at the manor and he knew he would die in this war. His father attempted comfort by saying if they died in pursuit of the cause it would be a noble death, a death worthy of a Malfoy. Though it was no comfort to Draco now, in fact, it had never been. 

The Dementor stayed silent. 

“Is this supposed to frighten me?” feigned Draco, for he was frightened. The weight of the Dementor’s hand on his shoulder was like a constant inpouring of cold, empty sadness. 

A nod came from the creature at his side. It was all the answer he received. 

Although being used to odd goings on and ghosts, this night had proven to Draco that there were things at work inside this castle that he might never fully understand and he was uncertain if he wanted to understand. It was then that he remembered Dumbledore’s words earlier that evening; his speech that there were many things to enjoy about the castle at Christmas. Was this the kind of thing Dumbledore had meant? Being haunted by his past, confused by his present, and scared of his future? He found himself wondering if Dumbledore had orchestrated this entire night. It would not shock him entirely; Dumbledore was a great, often odd, wizard who had been hinting to Draco since third year that there was another path for him. He’d even gone so far as showing Draco the Mirror of Erised, something he had thought to be a myth. 

Twas the night before his birthday last year and Dumbledore found him in the library, huddled amongst books on ancient runes. He claimed there was some dire emergency and that Draco must attend to it with haste. They rushed off, Draco walking briskly behind the swish of Dumbledore's gray velvet robes. When they arrived at their destination of the Astronomy Tower, Draco was taken aback by the grandiose mirror in the middle of the space. The inscription told him what he was looking at and his curiosity ran away with him. He sprinted to stand in front of the mirror, Dumbledore did not stop him. 

Draco saw himself, older, but otherwise unchanged upon first glance, standing next to Harry Potter. A month ago they had shared their first kiss in the locker rooms after quidditch. In this scene, Harry, too, was older. The pair of them looked happy and they held hands, fingers intertwined. Draco spied on his reflection's left forearm a tattoo peeking out from under his pushed up shirt sleeve. He knew the mark instantly; the Dark Mark, however, it was scarred over as if something had tried to rip it away from his skin. The pink of the scar stood out against his pale skin. It was a matching scar to the one his father left on his opposite forearm, but it’s appearance gave Draco hope that he would find a way off the path he was on. 

Knowing the myth of the mirror, Draco’s gut wrenched suddenly. His deepest desire was to turn his back on the Dark Lord and be with Harry. Dumbledore had shown him this in hopes of changing Draco’s mind about his part in the upcoming war and this, plus the kiss he shared with Harry only a few weeks prior, is what sent him home that summer with the concerns that got him roped into fixing the Vanishing Cabinet. He resented Dumbledore for showing him what he could never have.

A slight tremble came over Draco as he realized the Dementor watched him as he remembered. It filled him with great horror, to know that behind the dark cloak, there were two hollowed out eye sockets intently fixed upon him. 

“Are you my future? Is this to mean I get caught working for the Dark Lord and receive the Dementor’s kiss? Is that it? Are you here to warn me away from my current path and tell me that certain death awaits me unless I change?” The creature did not respond. Draco felt all of his emotions bubble over like a wrongly brewed potion. He shouted, “Well, answer me, creature!” 

Draco trembled all the more as he let the words he spoke fully register. His fear was palpable now and he felt his legs buckling under him. The weight of the Dementor's bony hand on his shoulder, a present reminder of the death that he so feared. 

Again, no reply from his macabre companion. Instead, it extended its free hand, one bony finger pointing to the hearth. 

“Get on with it then,” said Draco, holding back tears. “Lead on! Let’s end this dreaded night, shall we?” His voice shook as he spoke, but he was ready to venture onward. Whatever sight the Dementor had in store for him could not be worse than standing in its presence in a darkened room alone. 

The creature moved away from him, dragging his hand off Draco’s shoulder slowly, very slowly, as if each movement cost it great amounts of energy. 

As with Draco’s previous guests, the world shifted around them and suddenly they were in Hogsmeade. It was evening and the sun had started to set behind the horizon. The sky was awash in oranges and reds. The air smelled like fresh grass and wet earth. The streets were busy with people bustling from shop to shop. Groups of school aged children laughed outside of Honeydukes; each with a handful of candy and a mouthful, too. The shop owners were all gossiping with one another as they swept their stoops, or brought in their papers. 

The Dementor stopped in front of Madame Rosmerta, the owner of the Three Broomsticks. She had golden hair that was tied up haphazardly atop her head. She wore a dark brown bodice with a red flowing skirt that poured down the the cobblestone walk. The Dementor pointed to her and Draco moved closer to hear her speech. 

“No,” said she. Her arms pulled around her middle tightly. “I don’t know much, either way. I just know dead is dead, innit?”

“When did it occur?” asked a man Draco did not recognize. He was short and plump and wore a tawdry green vest with a golden pocket watch. 

“Last night. You heard the ruckus, didn’t you?”

“Why, of course, but I did not realize the seriousness of it,” answered the man in the green vest. 

“I heard,” said another woman who had been passing. She held a folded  _ Prophet _ to her chest. “I heard that Harry Potter gave him a chance to switch sides. Heart of pure gold, that one.”

“Aye, he is a wonderful boy,” agreed Madame Rosmerta. “Can’t say the other one will be missed, though.”  

“He was just a boy,” interjected the man with the green vest. “Surely, you are not so callous, Rosmerta.”

“He’d have grown up to be just as rotten as his father, if you ask me,” said she. 

The third person, still clutching her paper, said, “I spoke with him once. He was actually quite pleasant as a young boy. If things had been different, I think he could have grown into a fine young man.”

Draco knew they were speaking of him, for the entire night's theme had been things he’d done wrong, or people he had affected. Why should this encounter be any different? 

However, at the mention of a rotten father, it was solidified. He looked closely at the paper clutched in the third person’s hands, curious to see the date; Madame Rosmerta did not look much older than she had upon his last visit to Hogsmeade, so not much time could have passed. 

The date read 24th April 1998. 

Draco staggered backward and felt his throat close up. That was less than five months from present. The sharp realization hit him in waves. One moment he was thinking ‘this is all a dream, a very bad dream’ and then next he was sure this was the truth. He felt it in his bones, his very soul, that death was coming for him and he could do naught to avoid it. 

The ghoulish guide, spoke no words of comfort, and pointed to a group of Hogwarts students. At first, Draco did not make a move. He could not imagine what the Dementor wanted him to hear from them, but it could not be anything useful. He had just learned of his own death. Not much else could occupy his mind. 

The Dementor placed a hand on the small of Draco’s back and guided him forward to stand at the edge of the group of classmates. He recognized many of them. Most of them were Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff. There was the odd Slytherin in the crowd, but at the heart of the commotion was Harry Potter, himself. He looked tired. The bags under his eyes were dark, he looked as if he’d just finished crying, and he seemed to be attempting to break free of the crowd. There was a bag clutched under his arm full of treats. 

“Harry, Harry, did you do it? Did you?” a Ravenclaw student asked. She wore her hair in twin braids and had dark, smooth skin. 

“Guys, please, I just want to go lie down,” said Harry. 

“Were you shocked that Draco died?” a small dark haired Slytherin boy asked.

Harry stopped struggling against the crowd at the mention of Draco’s name. “Please, don’t mention him to me.” There were the beginnings of tears in his eyes. His jaw clenched. 

Morbidly, Draco thought of his death. Could it have been prevented? He found himself wishing someone would mention it. Maybe if he knew what happened, he could avoid it. He considered all the likely options, the first being the Dark Lord killed him in a fit of dissatisfaction at Draco’s inability to make the Vanishing Cabinet work. Then he thought it was just as likely he died trying to make the cabinet work. It was dodgy magic and very dangerous. There was a chance he splinched himself beyond repair or trapped himself in the void in between. 

Quiet and dark, the Dementor stood behind him as Draco strained his neck to read a piece of the paper that was on the floor underfoot. The headline read:  _ Son of a Suspected Death Eater Found Dead at Hogwarts _ . He tried to see the smaller words of the article, but as he knelt to do so the crowd shifted and some of the students trampled the paper. 

There were more questions about Draco’s death and about Harry’s involvement in it. Yet, as the crowd spoke, Draco could not hear them. His attention was on Harry, who looked like he had not slept. Could his current state of undoing be in response to Draco’s death? The thought made Draco’s stomach jump. Even after all he saw this night, he only truly believed that Harry cared for him now. The grief on his face told Draco what all of Harry’s kind words could not.

“I asked you to not mention him,” said Harry. His voice grew hard. He was pushing, more forcefully, through the crowd now. His face was red and there were tears streaming down his cheeks. “Get out of my way.” 

Without thinking, Draco ran to Harry and when he came upon him, extended his hand, but realizing he could not be seen, dropped it limply in front of him. He cried then, properly. Not caring how weak he looked. The only one to see him undone was the Dementor. He let his sobs rip through his body until he shook so violently from them he fell to his knees. 

This whole scene was difficult to take in for Draco had, during his visit with Lily and James let himself believe, for a moment, there was hope, especially after hearing Harry speak about their relationship as if it were not something to be ashamed of, but something to be embraced. 

“He deserved it, you know,” a tall blonde Ravenclaw girl shouted at Harry as he worked his way through the crowd. “He deserved death. They all do, the whole lot of them.” 

Harry’s back went rigid at her words. The bag he’d been clutching slipped from his grasp and hit the cobblestone walk with a thud. 

The girl pushed forward. “He was a nasty git and you know it. We all do.”

“No one  _ deserves _ to die,” said Harry, refusing to face the girl. His voice was solemn. “Not him, not any of us. It doesn’t fix anything.”

“You’re just saying that because you and he were getting handsy in broom closets after classes,” said she. “The whole school knows about it. How could you like someone like  _ him _ ? You’re disgusting.”

Harry turned finally, his face set in a hard line. “I don’t want to have this conversation. Please leave me alone.” 

“Dementor, I demand you tell me what is going on,” said Draco firmly looking back and forth between Harry and the tall Ravenclaw girl. “Why have you shown me this? Is it absolute?” 

No answer came from his companion. 

“I’m glad he’s dead,” the Ravenclaw girl spat out. “We all are.”

Harry grabbed for his wand and the crowd gasped in unison. He held it up in front of him, ready for a duel. “Speak ill of him again and I will hex you.”

“See? He’s poisoned you! Harry Potter just threatened me. You all saw it,” she shouted, turning to the crowd. “Being with someone rotten makes you rotten, too. What’s next? Will you take the Dark Mark?”

“Stop,” pleaded Harry. His wand hand shook, but he did not lower it. “You didn’t know him. You didn’t know anything about him. Just walk away.”

“I know he was ready to sell us all out to you-know-who,” said she. “That’s all I need to know.” The crowd murmured in agreement. Even the few Slytherins nodded along with the rest. Emboldened, the Ravenclaw girl shoved through the crowd and raised her wand, too. She took up the dueling stance and said, “I only wish I’d have been there to watch him die.”

“Shut up.”

“You were there weren’t you? Got to see your slimy git of a boyfriend as the life drained from him? How was it? Did he beg to live? Did you try to rescue him? I can just picture him begging to live.”

“Go, before I do something I regret,” shouted Harry. Sparks flew from his wand. The crowd backed up slightly, but the girl stood firm. 

Draco watched the scene in front of him, wishing he could get Harry’s attention and tell him that it wasn’t worth it. That he wasn’t worth fighting this girl over. That he wasn’t worth mourning for. He wanted so badly to save Harry from this fate. He wanted to save both of them from it, if he let himself think honestly.

“Stop this, Dementor,” asserted Draco, hoping he didn’t sound as weak as he felt. 

The Dementor shook his head, the only answer Draco had gotten from the macabre creature. 

“Take me home.”

No reply. Instead the scene shifted and Draco was at the edge of the forbidden forest. He could see a trail of blood leading into the thick foliage blossoming in the spring weather. He stood there, on the edge of the forest, not wanting to follow the blood and knowing that if he did not, the Dementor would just move the scene so he was upon the sight he wished to avoid. With great effort, he moved one foot and then next, following the trail of blood until he came upon a clearing. 

The sun shone through the treetops illuminating the scene. Harry was covered in blood, crouched over a body which was limp and pale. Hermione and Ron stood off to the side, holding onto one another. All three of their sobs were quiet. The only other sounds were the birds chirping in their nests.

Draco walked up to them and peered down at the body. Death had not come quickly. No killing curse had done this. It was brutal, personal, and a message. The pale skin of the stomach had a message written on it in blood:  _ Traitor _ . 

“It’s my fault,” said Harry through his sobs. “I followed him out here. He was meeting with Greyback. I, I, stepped on the cloak and Greyback saw me and stunned me. Draco pleaded with him. Tried telling him that he didn’t know I was there, but...it didn’t matter. Greyback tore into his neck before I could do anything.”

“Harry, this isn’t your fault,” answered Ron. “You were worried about him, we all were. We all decided following him was our best chance at keeping him safe.”

“He’s right, Harry,” added Hermione. “Malfoy refused to tell you anything. It was the only thing we could do to figure out what Voldemort was planning.”

Harry, ignoring his friends, cradled Draco’s body closer to his chest and began rocking back and forth. “Oh, Merlin, Draco. I’m so sorry.” He leaned down and kissed Draco’s forehead. Still rocking back and forth, Harry shuddered out a breath and said, “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Draco.”

Draco found himself unable to stand. He crashed to his knees and began sobbing. His throat felt raw from all the crying. Through the tears he looked on as Harry cradled his dead body and realized the path he was on led to certain death. 


	6. The End

Back in the comfort of his own room, Draco felt his heartbeat coming back to a steady pace. He was glad to be rid of his cloaked companion more than he was glad to be back in the comfort of his own bed. His hands trembled still. A quick  _ Tempus _ told him it was nearly four in the morning on Christmas Day. The smallest stirring of hope sprang up from his gut and he was struck with the urge to see Harry at once. 

“I will not die,” Draco repeated, as he scrambled out of his pajamas. “I will change things. I will fix everything. I promise, Harry.” 

He was so flustered and so overwhelmed by the things he saw and felt, that it took him a long while to unbutton his shirt. He had been sobbing so furiously that his stomach clenched and he felt nausea hit in small waves. His face was wet with tears and his throat raw. 

“It’s possible. It has to be possible,” cried Draco, sliding a blue jumper over his head and flattening his hair back, “I don’t have to keep going this way. It’s not written in stone. Isn’t that what they wanted me to see? That it can all change.”

His hands were busy fastening his trousers; they stumbled a few times trying to loop the button through the hole. He tried to pull his belt through the loops and after mis-threading it twice, he threw it to his bed and gave up on it entirely. He put on mismatched socks; one green and the other blue. 

“Oh, Merlin, am I really going to go to  _ him? _ ” cried Draco, laughing and sobbing in the same breath; and looking at his reflection to see his hair stood up from the static in his sweater. “He’s going to think I’ve gone stark raving mad if I show up and tell him how I feel at four in the morning. Oh, bollocks, who am I talking to? Maybe I have gone mad.” 

Draco grabbed his wand and with haste, jogged to the common room. By the time he reached the exit, a thought occurred to him. It was Christmas and he did not have a gift for Harry, or for anyone. He suddenly felt ashamed at the idea of showing up there empty handed especially after seeing Harry and his mate exchange gifts. 

Pacing the room, Draco thought about what could be done about this in such a small amount of time. He wanted to rush to Harry before he lost his nerve. He was after all, dear reader, about to betray the Dark Lord and his family. That tends to work someone’s nerves into a tizzy. 

In this state, it was a wonder Draco noticed the small packages in a line on the mantle. They were wrapped in gold paper, but left unsealed, and they were each small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. There was a small bit of parchment in front of the middle present. Draco picked it up precariously. 

_ Take that leap, Draco. I believe in you—James Potter _

Draco folded the bit of parchment and tucked it into his trouser pocket, smiling at the note. “I will.”

Draco picked up the middle box and opened it. Inside was a seed. There was a small parchment that said it was called a resurrection tree which is a kind of tree that can die and from sheer force of will, bring itself back to life under the right circumstances. 

The second gift was a monocle that when held up to the light could be used to spot out magical traces. Draco held it up to his eye and saw swirls of blues and golds and reds dancing around the common room like dust in the sunlight. He felt himself calm at the sight. It had been real, he could see their magic lingering. Relief spread through his body.

Finally, the third gift was a book of matches that had been charmed to burn purple in sight of danger and green in sight of safety. 

He had already made his mind up about which gift would go to which person; Harry would get the seed, Hermione the monocle, and Ron the matches. They were all small gifts, but Draco felt himself grow lighter knowing he had something to offer to them. 

In a rush, he scrawled their names on the gifts boxes and made a small heart to sign his name on Harry’s. “In for a Knut, in for a Galleon,” said Draco to himself, not caring how mad he sounded. 

Outside of the Gryffindor dorm, Draco had a moment of anxiety. How would it look, him, showing up with three gifts outside their dorms? The other houses weren’t even supposed to know where each other lived. Draco only knew because his father had shown him all the castle secrets before the year started, including the Room of Requirement.  

The Fat Lady eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing here then?” She was a plump woman, decked out in a lovely garment with her hair pulled into an updo. She sat among the forest eating fruits. 

Puffing out his chest and taking a deep breath, Draco asked, “Would it be possible for you to let me in to see Harry Potter?”

“And why should I do that?” the Fat Lady asserted, then added, “I don’t expect he wants to see you.”

“It’s Christmas,” said Draco. He smiled to hopefully seem less fidgety, though it was difficult to contain his nerves standing on the literal threshold of change. “Can you tell him I’m here at least? Then he can decide for himself if he wants to see me.”

One more cautious glance and she agreed. “Fine.”

A moment later, the portrait swung open and Draco saw Harry. He was in his pajamas still and his hair stood up at all ends. His glasses were on crooked and there was a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. He really did look so like his father.

“Malfoy, what are you doing here?” asked Harry, sleep still in his voice. He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the butt of his palm. “It’s early. Is something wrong?”

“Happy Christmas,” said Draco, shoving his hands forward. The present's gold wrapping glittered against the candle light. 

Harry’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Happ—Happy Christmas,” said Draco once more; his hands trembled again and he felt a bit of sweat beading at the nape of his neck. 

“You got me a present?” Harry looked incredulous. He cocked his head to the side and his gaze landed on the small presents in Draco’s hands. “Really?”

Draco nodded. He shoved his hands out further until they were directly in front of Harry’s torso. “For you and Granger and Weasley.”

“Is this some kind of prank then?”

“No, sincerely, they are presents.”

Hermione and Ron appeared at Harry’s sides; both wore their pajamas as well. Hermione had her hair pulled back in a tight bun, she held a mug of something warm. The steam rose from it. Ron, in his offensively orange pajamas looked the least tired of the three.

“Malfoy?” asked Hermione and Ron in unison. 

“Happy Christmas,” said Draco shoving a gift into each of their hands. 

The three stood with the gifts, looking back and forth between each other and Draco. Their faces ranged from pure confusion to suspicion. 

“Can I speak to you, Harry?” asked Draco. “Alone?”

“Er,” replied Harry. He looked to Ron who shrugged and turned his attention to the small parcel in his hands. Hermione nodded. Harry turned back to him and answered, “Sure, come in?”

Hermione and Ron looked confused, but did not say anything. They took their presents and walked out of ear shot. They stood near the hearth attempting to look like they were not at all intending to eavesdrop, though they were. 

“What’s all this about?” asked Harry, looking at his small present box.

“Will you open it?”

Harry made no reply, but opened the small box and saw the seed. His brows quirked together and he looked up at Draco with the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not much of a gardener.”

Draco laughed. “It is more symbolic than anything. It’s a Resurrection tree. It can bring itself back from the brink of death. It can change it’s circumstances.”

Harry looked up from the seed. His face was alight with curiosity. “What are you saying?”

This was it. The leap of faith. Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had to trust that Harry meant what he said. He had to trust that his feelings were not weakness. “Voldemort has ordered me to make the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement work so that his followers may use it to enter the castle.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been working all year to get the thing working, without success until recently, and now I am telling you because I don’t want to be a puppet any longer and I don’t want him to use it.”

“Malfoy, I…”

“Wait, let me say this one thing before you respond to me,” said Draco. He waited and when Harry nodded, he continued. “I, uh, I love—I love you. Merlin, I know how that sounds, believe me, but I can’t keep going on one foot in and one foot out. Well, so here I am, taking a leap and hoping against hope that, well, that you’ll jump with me.”

Harry did not respond right away, dear readers, and as you can imagine those moments in between were some of the most agonizing moments in Draco’s life. Time slowed as he waited. His heart pouring in his ears, his palms sweating. 

“I love you, too, Draco,” answered Harry. He smiled and pulled Draco forward by the collar of his jumper. They were nose to nose and Harry kissed him, softly, their lips brushing over one another. 

Breathless, Draco leaned into Harry, into the kiss and let Harry hold him. He let himself relax for the first time since he was young. He trusted that he had changed his fate.

  
  
  



End file.
